A Snapping Sound
by Represent
Summary: "You're new Sam, so you don't know. This will be the only warning you get. Don't trust your eyes or you'll be tricked. Nobody in Amity is who they seem. Nobody."
1. Poor Little Fool

_Update 6/16/2016:_ This story is on hiatus until I finish writing and editing it's third and final section.  
 _Update 2/26/2016:_ Journal entry dates have been modified to fit within the new criminal timeline.  
 _Update 11/1/2015:_ I restructured the fic so diary entries are found at the bottom of a chapter.

Warning— This is a horror/murder mystery AU. Future chapters contain disturbing images and scenes.

Thank you Cordria for beta-ing this enormous beast. Your relentless hacking and slicing was just what this fic needed to get it into shape. Also, your endless knowledge about hospitals, police, school suicide protocols, arson... and all things dark are equal parts impressive and unnerving.

〰〰〰

 **A Snapping Sound**

Part I: Shadow People

〰〰〰

She noticed the chandelier first. It was loud; an overabundance of crystals that glittered and fluttered overhead. A gust from the front door caused the gold-drizzled chains to sway gently, glinting in the low light. Rubies. Tacky, icky things.

Sam didn't like excess. She had never not had it, therefore she had the privilege of despising it.

"Well, what do you think?" the realtor asked, spinning on her stilettos. Her hair was ashy blonde, skin a leathery tan— probably from one too many hours on a beach somewhere far away from here, somewhere expensive. She held out her hands, palms up, in front of herself as she gestured to the enormous front hallway and double staircase. The pair of stairs ascended on each side, curving gently, to meet together at the second floor landing.

"It's beautiful," Sam's mother sighed dreamily. "Lovelier than any other house we've seen in this city."

"It's perhaps the oldest," the realtor said. "The man who built it had a taste for grandeur. The man who added onto it, even more."

"The craftsmanship is really something. They don't make houses like this anymore. I can't believe the asking price is so low," her father uttered, taking a few steps over to the wall to run a hand along the smooth, unblemished, wood panel. Mahogany. Or so they had been told. All original, nineteen twenties. If there was one thing her dad loved, it was being sold the promise of fine craftsmanship. Their old garage was full of brand new wood-working tools. He had a habit of starting things and never finishing them. "What do you say, Sammy?"

Sam glowered. "I don't think it's big enough," she cut sarcastically.

Her parents exchanged a knowing look, before they powered on as if she hadn't spoken.

She heaved a sigh that ruffled her bangs. Sometimes she felt like a ghost within her own family.

 _Great._ _Yet another extravagant place too large for a family of three,_ she thought. She crossed her arms and glared at each of the many details, as if they had personally offended her in their ostentatiousness. Intricate glass and metalwork chandeliers, musty runners that had dizzying floral patterns, walls and ceilings covered in frescos of nude women and beasts. The only redeeming thing was it's age. The whole place was dusty. Sam inhaled slowly. The scent of time. Like an old book. Despite being cleaned before this showing, particles hung in the air, a lingering haze, as if this house could never be— _would_ never be— without a thin film of dust. It had history, and history meant there was—

A shadowed movement near the second story railing caught Sam's eye. She whipped her head around and gazed up, seeing nothing, but she felt as though something else was seeing _her_.

"So… anyone die here?" she found herself asking.

Her mother shot her a warning look.

The realtor paused mid-sentence. She struggled wordlessly for a moment, hand flopping, before she twitched her head over to the second story to follow Sam's gaze. She gave Sam a patronizingly polite smile, lips strained. "Why do you ask, dear?"

"It's just... a house this old...I'm sure it has some stories, right?"

"As a matter of fact, there was a death. Two and a half years ago. Suicide. Horrible thing," the realtor muttered. She gripped the papers in her hand tightly. For a brief second something flickered across her face, then she was all bubbles again. "You two don't seem like the type to believe in the paranormal," she laughed in her parent's direction.

Her mother pulled a face. "Of course not."

A death huh? _Interesting._

The realtor braved on, " _Anyway…_ It's in a great location. Five blocks west is the main entrance to the park, which has a playground and man-made pond…"

Sam remembered that park from the car ride. It was badly maintained, poorly lit, spanned five blocks, and was surrounded with a rusted gate. The only thing of note was the eclectic mix of businesses near the entrance: a 7-11, a frozen yogurt shop, and a cemetery.

Sam tilted her chin thoughtfully, combat boots clunking noisily around the front landing as she paused at each doorway, sticking her head inside each room. Beyond each lay a huge room with more wood paneling, more hand chiseled arches, more hand painted ceilings. At the left staircase she stopped and hooked her arm around the railing, leaned back, elbow interlocked, and spun idly around to gaze up at the empty second story landing. Above her a painting of lions devouring gazelles swirled. "I like this place," Sam decided. A rare smile crossed her lips.

Silence.

Sam blinked and righted herself to glance back at her parents. Her mother was gazing at her, jaw unhinged, as if she couldn't believe that Sam and her agreed on something.

Her father raised an eyebrow. "You do?" he asked.

Sam's smile faded. She rolled her eyes and scuffed a bit at the old hardwood floor. "It's alright," she admitted with a boneless shrug.

"That's it then," her father said, addressing the realtor. "We'll take it."

.

.

Welcome to Amity Park: self-proclaimed most haunted city in America, and her new home.

Sam peered out her window at the dense pine trees and the hastily attached fire escape that looked like some kind of last minute addition. She picked this room because of it's quick escape route, liking the idea that she could sneak in and out of the house at will. Outside the sun was falling as night approached. They had been moving in all day. Sam stretched a bit, wincing at the tense muscles in her back and neck.

Her parents said they moved to be closer to her grandmother, but Sam knew the truth. They moved because of her and all her 'issues.' Her rebellion, her lack of friends, her self-isolation, black eyeliner, metal music, sarcasm, morbid fascinations… and, yeah, she might've been in a few fights. But she hadn't started any, despite what her parents thought. She had defended herself…. and got expelled.

Sam grunted and lugged a box full of photos and books onto her new bed. She glared down at it.

Moving felt like running away. She wasn't afraid of her peers. She was different and different was good. Different also stuck out in high school. The tauntings, the bullying... Casper High would be the same. Summer vacation officially ended tomorrow, and with it began a new school year, in a new town, with the same old cliques.

"Samantha?"

Sam paused, seeing her mother hovering in the hallway. "What?"

"Need any help unpacking?" Pamela pushed herself off of the doorframe and moved into the bedroom, looking across Sam's things with ill-concealed worry.

Sam gazed at her horror movie posters and black ruffled bed sheets. "I'm fine."

"I wish you had just let the movers do this for you," Pamela said quietly. She tugged at her silk robe, pulling it tighter across her body with a shiver. As she walked near Sam's desk her fingers reached out to graze several of Sam's sketchbooks.

"I like doing things myself," Sam muttered. "Besides, I hate when people go through my stuff." She sent a pointed look at her mother.

Pamela withdrew her probing fingers and crossed her arms, holding them around her middle. She gazed at Sam for a long moment before she sighed and took a few steps forward to brush some of Sam's black hair out of her eyes. A lock was tucked behind her ear. "This will be so much better for you, honey." She smiled, cupping Sam's cheeks. "You can start over, clean slate."

Sam frowned, twisting out of her mother's grasp to look back down at her records. She flipped through a few of them silently. She wasn't sure if she _wanted_ a clean slate.

"You know, when you were little you were so optimistic, so happy, so… different," her mother continued. "Your father and I just want you to be our happy, little girl again."

Sam gritted her teeth, not knowing what to say. It seemed happiness was something that faded with age. "That's not me." She was a realist. The only hope she had abandoned was false hope. "That's just not me. Not anymore."

"I know, sweetie, I know," her mother hummed, petting the top of her head for a few moments. Sam forced herself to stay in the embrace. Touching wasn't her thing, especially touching near her neck. "Anyway, isn't this place magnificent? And the town is… charming."

Sam peered around. Her room: four walls covered in purple victorian wallpaper, filigree trim, a four poster bed with plentiful pillows, and a tall three-up bay window complete with a window seat that overlooked the side garden. The garden itself was unkempt, grown wild from years of neglect. Several enormous pine trees swayed gently in the chilly September wind. They loomed up the side of the house to form a natural wall. "It's definitely different," she said. And she liked different. Different was good.

.

.

"You're the new girl?"

Sam tore her gaze off of her locker and turned, schedule in hand, to look over at a short African-American boy. He had on a red beret, glasses, toothy grin, and loose baggy pants. All of these things combined made him feel warm and likable. Sam shut her locker with a _bang_. "I'm the New Girl," she confirmed.

"Oh." He looked flummoxed for a moment, before he tilted his head. "Is that nose ring real?"

Sam reached up to tap at the ring. It bounced several times convincingly.

"...You really like black, huh?" the kid noted.

Sam resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead she stared straight back at him, face emotionless. "No, I hate black. I'm only wearing it to be ironic," she deadpanned.

To her surprise, the kid threw his head back and _laughed._ It was a loud and rambunctious laugh, one that made several students pause and look at them, their eyes lingering curiously. She could feel the weight of their judgements already. Her shield flew up, her shoulders hunched. "What do you want?" Sam snapped.

"Oh, sorry. I'm Tucker, Tucker Foley." He extended a hand, but took it back with a nervous chuckle when Sam made no move to shake it. He tapped his hand a few times against his leg instead. "I'm— uh— I'm supposed to show you around. You know, welcome you to Casper High. Go Ravens, and all that."

Sam slumped a little, feeling her guard break down at the pouty face the kid was giving her. "Look, sorry. I'm Sam Manson." She held out her schedule apologetically. "Wanna show me where these classes are?"

Tucker perked up. He grabbed her schedule from her, straightening his glasses as he squinted to read the small print. "Right. Oh _man_ — You have homeroom with Teslaff. This way."

Casper High wasn't as big as her last high school. There were two main wings, east and west, connected by a large middle corridor where the cafeteria and main office were. The gym was near the back of the eastern wing, down a narrow set of cement steps, next to the football field. An early-morning mist curled about the grounds making the school feel sleepy. Beyond the football field a dense pine forest walled off the boundaries of the yard.

Halfway through her tour Sam knew she no longer needed directions, but she kept her mouth shut and continued nodding as Tucker dragged her along. Her mother had sent her off this morning with one task: make a friend. She was trying. This Foley kid seemed nice enough, although he was a little strange and talked a lot.

"—and _this_ is where the band practices," Tucker was babbling, gesturing towards a pair of twin doors. "It's empty most of the time. Kids use it to make out." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at her.

Sam wrinkled her nose, unsure if he was flirting with her. Beyond the small windows Sam could see rows of seats. An auditorium. Although, it seemed empty. Empty except for… "Who's that?" Sam asked.

Tucker paused, following her gaze. "Oh," he stated.

"Oh?" Sam asked. She took a few steps closer to peek inside, curious. There was a young woman sitting at the end of the first row. Her head was tucked between her crossed arms, body bent, hair spilling across the table, obscuring her face. She looked… sad. Sam knew incredible sadness when she saw it. She felt the urge to open the door and ask her if she was okay.

Tucker sidled up between her and the handle, making Sam retreat, blocking her view. He held his open hands out in front of his chest. "That's someone you shouldn't bother."

"Why not?" Sam challenged. She bristled at the warning. She could talk to whomever she wanted.

"That's… That's Valerie Gray," Tucker whispered. He glanced around the empty hallway like just speaking her name would cause something to happen. Nothing did.

Sam frowned. Everyone here seemed paranoid, on-edge, as if they were tip-toeing atop a minefield. Sam craned her neck to try and see around Tucker. "So, what'd she do?"

"She didn't _do_ _anything,"_ Tucker glared, voice tinged with ire. His face softened after a moment and he sighed. His hand darted to readjust his glasses and he looked down at the linoleum floor.

The doors around them slammed open as the bell shrieked and within seconds they were engulfed by a sea of high schoolers. Chaos and chatter, scuffling and shoving. Sam stumbled as she got knocked in the shoulder. Tucker pressed her schedule back into her hands and gave her a thumbs up.

"We have English and US History together," he said loudly above the noise, "Try not to get lost until then."

"I won't get lost," Sam shot back defensively.

Tucker laughed another one of his boisterous laughs. His eyes twinkled with mirth. "I know you won't. The great Tucker Foley taught you, after all. Who can forget a face like this?" And with that parting remark he faded into a sea of sweaty youth.

Sam found herself alone, once again, in a crowd of people. She looked back through the door to the auditorium, but Valerie Gray was gone.

.

.

"So?"

Sam glanced up off of her plate. Her parents stared back at her expectantly. Her mother had on one of her trademark fake smiles. Sam looked back down at her plate and shoveled her broccoli around before trying to stab them over and over with the fork. "So, what?" she mumbled.

"How was your first day?" her father asked.

Sam shrugged, not really in the mood to talk about it. If she was being completely honest, she would rather just eat her dinner up in her room and avoid family time altogether, but instead she let out a slow breath and said, "Fine."

"You make any new friends?" her mother probed, while loading up her plate with salad. She smiled encouragingly.

Sam knew it must be hard on her parents, her being this way. Especially two gung-ho optimistic bright shiny parents who had too much energy to know what to do with. Both jobless after inheriting a small fortune, they flung themselves at every and any cause. Already her mother had begun a petition to clean up Amity Park's namesake: the three-block-long central park that was quickly becoming a landfill. It was a trait that Sam both admired and hated. Oftentimes their campaigning bled into Sam's personal life. They pried with the same vigor they gave speeches. Always digging for an answer; never satisfied with the ones Sam gave.

"You don't make friends in a day," Sam stated flatly.

"Of course, honey," her father said. "But you _are_ making an effort?"

"I said I would," Sam answered noncommittally. That seemed to appease her parents. They smiled at each other before returning to their meal. She thought of Tucker and Valerie, two people that she could, potentially, be friends with. But the thought of getting close to anyone made her tired. The people she loved had a habit of disappearing.

"I'm glad to hear that, honey," her mother said softly. "It'll be good to make some new friends. To move on."

Sam felt a snap of anger rush through her. Her eyes narrowed and her grip on her fork grew tight. "I'm not replacing anyone. I'm not moving on and just… just _forgetting_ about her."

"We know" —her father blinked— "But—"

"It's not that easy," Sam continued. Her throat constricted and she felt her cheeks burn hot with frustration and sadness. Her neck ached. She reached back and rubbed it several times. "It's not that simple."

.

.

After dinner, Sam sped up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. This house still didn't feel like her own. It had a dizzying amount of rooms. It didn't smell like home, it didn't sound like home. She stepped on the second step from the top and it creaked, loudly. She hadn't learned how to sneak about in this place, but it seemed like everything she touched creaked or moaned.

As she yanked herself to the top of the stairs, intent to lock herself in her room for the rest of the night, a movement from outside gave her pause. She whipped her head around and gazed out the large entry windows. A group of people walked down the street, bundled in close formation. A strange light bounced, as if someone was leading the way with a flashlight.

Sam frowned and padded her way down the hall until she reached the master bedroom, which overlooked the front lawn and the street.

A group of about fifteen people were huddled together on the sidewalk, stopped at the metal gate that marked the beginning of the house's cobblestone walkway. A man dressed in all black led the group. He had on a top hat and what looked like a genuine oil lantern. His hands gesticulated wildly as he addressed the group. Sam pried the window open, just a little, to try and hear what he was saying. A bitingly cold breeze shot through and ruffled the curtains, but Sam couldn't make out what the man was saying. She watched until he made a small motion and turned, gazing once over the house, before moving on down the street, the throng of people following, a few snapping pictures. Sam hid behind the curtain and shut the window. Weird. Bizarre.

A gong-like sound resounded and echoed up the stairs into the room. It was deep and reverberated in her chest. Sam jumped. The sound continued, hitting three or four notes. It was only when it hit that last discordant _bummmm_ that Sam realized it was the doorbell.

Sam returned to the second story landing as her mother came whirling out from the dining area.

"Wow, that was something," her mother laughed breathlessly, although she looked frazzled. She peered through the small peephole in the door before she unlocked the deadbolt and cracked it open a bit. "Hello? Can I help you?"

"We hope so," a woman's voice laughed cheerily. "We're some of the neighbors. We thought we'd welcome you. So, you know, here we are. Welcome!"

Pamela opened the door fully. "Oh, hello. You gave us a scare. We weren't expecting anyone at this hour." The porch light illuminated two figures, one a taller African-American woman, the other, a lanky dark-haired teen with pale skin. The boy held a basket full of what looked like peaches. They stood awkwardly on the doorstep, even after Pamela motioned for them to step inside. "Come in, it's getting cold outside. You'll catch your death."

"Thank you," the lady smiled an enormous grin. The pair took a few steps inside and spun, once, around the entryway as if absorbing in every detail. Sam could see them clearly now in the light of the house.

The older woman looked about late-thirties, early forties. She was dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a tan leather jacket, maroon scarf wound around her neck. Her hair was wild, spilling in tight ringlets about her shoulders, skin dark and smooth, unblemished. Her smile grew nostalgic. Her hand moved to rest atop the shoulder of the boy in wonderment. The kid looked like some sort of actor, although she couldn't place exactly who. He had a timeless quality. He had on a soft-looking gray sweater and black pants. His dark hair was parted and sculpted with gel. Sam fidgeted against the banister, and immediately a pair of the bluest blue eyes were upon her. She felt like she had just swallowed an icicle. He made her nervous.

"Sam, come on down and meet….?"

"Evelyn." The woman smiled. "And this is Danny."

Mr. Blue— no _Danny_ — sent her a shy smile. Evelyn tightened her grip on his shoulder.

"Pamela Manson," her mother introduced, shaking each of their hands. She seemed to like these two with all their politeness and peaches. She glanced down at the basket in awe. "These are just lovely. I didn't know peaches were in season."

"Oh, if you know where to look…" Evelyn waved a hand. "I saw the moving truck. Your family moved in about a week ago?"

"Yes, it's been a fiasco. Boxes everywhere," Pamela chattered. "Come on in, we'll put these in the kitchen. This way." She wandered down the hallway.

Evelyn followed her mother, but the boy stayed behind.

Sam made her way down one of the staircases, managing not to trip. With a thud she landed on the last step and cast a wary gaze over at the boy.

He merely raised an eyebrow at her. "Nice boots."

"They're good for stomping."

"Sam's short for Samantha?"

"I prefer Sam," she said, clipped. She winced. This was exactly why she had trouble making friends. She was instantly suspicious of anyone that seemed to enjoy her company. She hated small talk, and had a biting sarcasm that scared away most prospects.

The boy merely grinned, unaffected. "Sam it is." He held out an arm and gestured at where her mother had trailed off. "After you, Sam."

Sam eyed him suspiciously, having never encountered a boy with manners. Immediately she wondered what his motives were. As she moved down the corridor she glanced over her shoulder at him, but he paid her little attention. He was looking up and down at the paintings, at the filigree, running a hand along the wood paneling. His fingertips traveled over the grooves of the hand-carved wood, knocking little pockets of dust free.

"...This is all…. new…" Evelyn was saying as the pair of them entered the kitchen.

"A lot of the old appliances were from the sixties, so we'll be replacing them. Don't want any accidental house fires now, do we?" her mother asked breezily. She placed the basket of peaches on the middle island. Already bits and pieces of the kitchen had been removed to prepare for the remodel. Most of the stovetops and the oven had been gutted.

"Oh certainly not," Evelyn agreed, although her face had lost it's rosy tinge. She was eyeing the torn up kitchen with ill-concealed distaste. "It's just, with a house this old one must be careful to preserve the original style."

Sam leaned against the counter and glanced over at the boy who was taking in the kitchen the way one took in their bedroom after a month long trip. She suddenly felt uneasy. Like, even though this was her house, she didn't belong here.

"Although we're all _so glad_ your family moved in here," the woman continued. "Did you know they were going to demolish this house if no one bought it? A house such as this? What a waste."

Her mother paused in taking out two glasses for water and peered back at the pair of them. "Where did you say you two live?"

"Oh, just up the street," Evelyn beamed.

"Right," her mother breathed. "Would you like some water? Tea?"

"We're fine, thank you. So tell me, is it just you and your daughter? She looks to be, what? Fifteen? Sixteen? Almost the same age as you, Danny."

"She's sixteen. Sophomore in high school."

" _She_ can talk, you know," Sam muttered.

"My husband's out running an errand but he'll be back any second," Pamela cut in smoothly, filling up her cup with tea, sipping at it nervously.

Evelyn blinked several times as she processed what her mother said. Realization dawned upon her features. She gasped. "Oh! Of course. I apologize. How rude of us to just barge in here and act like we own the place. We'll be on our way. It's getting late, anyway, and there's still plenty to do." She motioned for the boy to head for the front door. Sam wondered briefly who Evelyn was to him. A surrogate mother? Stepmother?

He pushed himself off of where he was leaning against the wall and followed Pamela and Evelyn as they made for the front entryway.

Sam took up the rear, watching their backs as they ducked through the dim lighting of the house. The lights glimmered off the boy's shoulders and cast strange shadows at his feet.

"I don't mean to rush you guys out, it's just that we weren't expecting visitors," Pamela explained, opening the front door.

"It was nice to meet you." Evelyn held out a hand. "I can't wait to get to know you and your family better."

As the two women exchanged pleasantries, Danny faced Sam. He tossed her a small smile. It was sweet. Sam couldn't help but return it.

"I'll see you around, Boots," he promised, then moved out of the house and onto the sidewalk before Sam could respond. The two of them vanished just as inexplicably as they had appeared. She peered beyond the curtain, unable to see their forms on the sidewalk or the street.

Her mother closed and locked the door. "Well," she announced, "they seemed nice."


	2. The Wanderer

.

〰〰〰

 **02**

The Wanderer

〰〰〰

"So, how are you liking Amity Park?"

Sam unrolled the top of her bag and took out her lunch, spreading it out across the cafeteria tabletop. Across from her Tucker settled into a chair, clattering down a plastic tray with a slice of pepperoni pizza. Her hand lingered atop a peach, one of the ones that the neighbors had brought over. "The people seem nice. We had a few come over and welcome us last night."

"Ew, what's that?"

Sam paused, peach halfway to her mouth. She glanced down at where Tucker was pointing, nose wrinkled in disgust. "That is a tofu and broccoli stir fry," she informed him. "With peanut sauce."

"Are you… like…?" Tucker asked, eyes wide behind his glasses.

Sam frowned. "A vegan? Yes."

"How do you get your protein?" Tucker tittered. "Don't you crave meat? Your body needs it, it's why we have these" —he tugged at his lip showing her his incisors— "'cause we're meat eaters—"

Sam took a gigantic bite into the peach instead of answering. Immediately something was wrong. An awful sour taste flooded her senses. The inside of the peach gushed mealy chunks of congealed goo into her mouth _._ Sam lurched forward and spat it out, gagging, placing her hand over her mouth as she nearly vomited across the table top. She stumbled and ran over to the trashbin, spitting up into it over and over, trying to rid herself of the taste.

"Are you okay?" Tucker asked. He held out his bottle of Coke.

Sam grabbed it and sloshed a mouthful of it around in her mouth, spitting it out. She grimaced and wiped the side of her mouth with her sleeve. The taste lingered.

"That's weird," Tucker mentioned. "It looks perfect on the outside." He held the peach in his hand, spinning it around in the light.

Sam plucked up the peach, her stomach squirming mutinously just looking at it. The inside was black with rot. She tossed it into the trash. "Yeah, weird." She shuddered.

A voice with an accent chimed in. "Looks like day two isn't going so hot for the New Girl."

Sam spun. Two girls, arm in arm, peered at her. Mischief sparkled in their eyes. Besides the fact that one of them was a petite Latina woman with sloping curves, while the other a tall boyish blonde, the two could be twins. Their mannerisms were identical, as well as their mocking smiles and their cheerleading uniforms. Sam tensed. _So it begins._

"Nice outfit," the blonde one piped up.

"Goth huh? Goth's _super_ in. We were just wondering..."

"...are you, like, into Goth type things?"

Sam wondered what they thought constituted a Goth type thing. Honestly she was more punk than goth, but she doubted these girls knew the distinction. Their ability to finish each other's sentences was nauseating. Sam felt her stomach start to churn, yet again. "If you mean sacrificing cheerleaders to the Devil, then yes."

Both of them paused and peered at her like a dog smelling prey. Then the darker haired one laughed. It was light and airy and perfect, just like the rest of her. "I'm Paulina," introduced Miss Perfect. "And this is—"

"Star," finished Star. Great. Even their names were cute. "You're _funny._ Anyway, we run the Spirit Club here on campus. We thought you might be interested."

"Seeing as you, you know, dress that way."

Sam tried not to get offended. "Spirit Club?" she repeated. "Like school spirit?" She glanced down at her outfit. Black pants, black metal band shirt, black ripped up jeans jacket, black hoodie, complete with (surprise) black boots. "Me?"

They both laughed in unison. The blonde teetered drunkenly with mirth, her hands fluttering up to rest atop her breastbone. Sam's heart sank. Was this some kind of joke? Were they making fun of her? Mocking her?

"She thinks it's _school_ spirit!" Star gasped.

"Oh my God," Paulina giggled. "She's totally the cutest. We _must_ have her."

"They mean _ghosts,_ " Tucker piped up.

Sam blinked, having forgotten he was there.

Tucker was gazing at the three of them, expression furrowed and serious. "They run a club dedicated to speaking with and summoning spirits." He affixed Paulina with a wary look. "Dangerous stuff, disturbing the dead. Especially in this town. They should _stay_ dead, if you ask me."

"Good thing no one asked you, _Foley,"_ Paulina snapped. Her face turned ugly. "We were talking to…"

"Sam," Sam supplied.

"Yeah, we were talking to _Sam._ So stay out of it."

Tucker backed off. His gaze dropped to his shoes, cheeks red, visibly chastised. By the way he instantly surrendered Sam felt as if this had happened before, many times. He went back to his pizza and sat alone.

Sam frowned. She spun back around to face Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. "That's not how you treat another person," she noted.

Paulina shrugged. "It's just Foley. He's used to it."

Sam opened her mouth to retort, then paused. Her mother would be furious to find out she had started something on day two, no matter how noble the cause. And while she was certain these girls would never be her friends, she didn't want to make any enemies. Especially enemies with the popular crowd. At least, not yet.

"So are you in or out, goth girl?" The two gave her a pair of smiles.

"I'm still settling in here, so I'll have to pass for now, but thanks for the invitation. It sounds interesting," Sam said. She really meant that last part. Casper High was certainly an unconventional place. A school where the popular crowd was into ghostlore?

"Well, if you change your mind, we have our weekly meetings on Tuesdays at ten. We meet up near the hospital on Roswell and Union," Star said. Together they spun and skated away, elbows interlinked, bouncing lightly on the balls of their trainers.

Sam returned to the table and sat down across from Tucker. She picked up her fork and stabbed her tofu a few times.

"You join?" Tucker asked demurely.

"No," Sam stated around her tofu. She chewed slowly, ignoring the shocked look on Tucker's face, before swallowing. Honestly, she hated conforming to anything popular. If everyone here was about ghosts, she wasn't gonna get sucked into it. "What?" she asked, when Tucker still hadn't gone back to his pizza.

He blinked and straightened. "Nothing. It's just… no one's told them no before."

Sam shrugged. "I didn't tell them no. I just said no, for right now."

He nodded. "Probably smart. You don't want them mad at you. They can make your life miserable."

"You speaking from experience?" Sam raised an eyebrow.

"They don't know what they're doing."

"Everyone's into that stuff," Sam snorted. "Vampires, werewolves… I blame Young Adult fiction. Awful, mindless drabble. Team Edward or Team Jacob. It's not even cool anymore. All the scary's been sucked out of it."

"Yeah, well, vampires and werewolves don't exist," Tucker muttered. "Ghosts do."

Sam almost laughed, thinking he was joking, then she saw the expression on his face. He was serious. "You've seen a ghost?" she probed.

"Well, yeah." Tucker said brazenly, as if she had asked him if he had seen rain. He stuffed the rest of his pizza in his mouth and pulled out his phone, effectively ending the conversation.

 _"Riiight,"_ she breathed, feeling suddenly weird. She didn't believe in the supernatural. There was no science in it. But instead of telling him that and getting in some kind of debate, she took another bite of her tofu.

.

.

"Settle down, settle down."

A horrible squeak of pen. The entire class shuddered as "Mr. Lancer, US History, Welcome Back" was scrawled across the whiteboard. The man dusted his hands off and spun to face the class. He was slightly overweight and wore an ill-fitting polo shirt, his hair half-balding, face handsome enough despite the stubble and dark circles. He was one of those middle-aged men that tried too hard. The kind that asked students to "chill out" and described himself as "in the know." A mug of coffee spun in his hand, as if permanently attached.

"Right," he said with a nod. "Let's get started, shall we? House rules. You all know them. No cellphones, no gum, no food, no cheating…" He waved his hands a few times as if to say etcetera etcetera, eyes scanning along the crowd of faces.

Quickly, he went through roll. Baxter. Bittle. Cardenas. Foley— Tucker raised his hand lethargically from the back of the classroom— Gomez. Henderson. Hui. Ingram. Jimenez-Sanchez.

Sam was displeased to find Paulina in this class. She was sitting directly in front of her, perfume radiating about her with the force of a nuclear leak. Sam wondered if her skin cells were being penetrated. This girl was _literally_ going to give her cancer. When Paulina's name was called she spun around and gave Sam a wink. "Aquí," she piped up, adorable accent in full effect.

Sam gritted her teeth and sent back what she thought was a neutral smile. It seemed to do the trick. Paulina spun back around.

"Manson," Lancer called.

"Here," Sam said.

Lancer paused, scanning her face. "That's a new one," he mumbled, looking down at his roll sheet for a moment. "Samantha Manson…" He tapped her name a few times like it was giving him grief, before moving on through the list.

"Okay," he announced, placing the role sheet down against the desk and clapping his hands together once, loudly. "Just because it's the second day back, doesn't mean I can't assign our culminating project." The class collectively groaned. Lancer trudged forward anyway, raising his voice. "For the final you will be paired up and given a time period. You will research the history of the United States as it pertains to your time period, and more specifically the history of Amity Park. Don't think you can find that kind of information on Wikipedia. You are going to have to go to the library on this one. The archives. A _fascinating_ place." Another collective moan. "On the last two weeks of the semester you will present your findings, dressed in that era, and will turn in a seven page research paper of what you learned."

Already students were rustling about in their chairs, leaning, making faces, pointing underneath their desks at their friends like: _You wanna suffer through this project together?_ Sam felt a pang in her chest. These kids already had their friends. So where did she fit in?

"Your partners have already been chosen," Lancer continued, as if he read their minds. Sam scowled. With her luck she would get paired up with Miss Perfect. Another groan, this time louder than before. Lancer ignored them. "Wiley, Gomez, and Xia, you get the 1910's. Baxter, you're with Hui. 1920's." —Sam heard the slap of a high-five from behind her— "Bittle, Ingram, Fincher get 1930's. Henderson, Jimenez-Sanchez, and Davidson, 1940's. Manson, Voss and—" He paused for a second, having lost his place. "Foley."

Sam and Tucker glanced at each other. Tucker offered her a grin. A boy sitting two seats in front of Tucker waved at her. He had an acne-riddled complexion and thick framed glasses.

"You three will do your report on the 1950's." Lancer raised an eyebrow at her. "You might find that time period interesting."

.

.

If there was one thing Sam valued most, it was her privacy. She would go to great lengths to preserve it. Like right now, wandering Amity Park at night, book in hand, looking for a spot where she would never be bothered. A quiet place. A thinking place. One to call her own.

The cold air was nice. The sharp contrast of it against her warm skin made her feel alive. She meandered past the park, seeing all the propaganda her mother had posted, rallying for a cause, stirring up trouble. Mansons were good at that. Although, sometimes Sam just wanted to be left alone. More and more that was the case. When she came across the cemetery she knew, instantly, she had found it: her spot. No one would dare enter a graveyard, much less bother her in one. Especially not in this overly superstitious town.

She reached in her backpack and grabbed her flashlight, flicking it on, sweeping it across the lot. Stoic tombstones and angels marked the soil. Huge trees hid parts of the graveyard from the street. She tested the gate. Locked.

Sam backed up and gazed at the fence. No barbed wire. She glanced around the deserted street, before putting the flashlight in her mouth and hoisting herself up and over the fence with ease. She had practice in climbing things. There was something nice in putting a few feet of distance between yourself and the rest of the world. People hardly looked up. Rooftops, tree canopies, road signs... all great hiding places. When she was little she had climbed a lot of trees. Lately, she had climbed out of a lot of windows.

Sam straightened the backpack straps against her shoulders and took the flashlight in hand again, trudging her way up the hill. A slow fog rolled in through the trees. The wind bent and billowed it downwards like chiffon. She lightly touched the tops of each headstone with her fingertips as she passed. Thomas Evans. Maxwell Atkins. Elizabeth Rose Gardiner. She wondered who they had been; how they had died.

She found the perfect reading spot underneath a flush pine. Settling at the base of the trunk, her back resting against the bark, she pulled out her book. With a content noise she began to read. Hours passed. It was in the middle of a page flip when Sam caught a small movement out of the corner of her eye and looked up.

She cast her light out. Two identical tombstones lay in front of her: Madeline and Jack Fenton. They had been there the entire time. However, the boy sitting atop one of them was new.

"You again?" Sam asked.

The neighbor boy— Danny?— put a hand up to shield his face from the light. Sam ducked the flashlight. "That's it?" he asked. "You again?" He sounded a little put out. Although Sam couldn't see his face clearly, she was certain he was pouting. She smelled the scent of cigarette smoke. But it was strange; almost too sweet.

"How long have you been there? It's rude to lurk," she chastised.

"Been lurking awhile," he admitted softly. He hopped off the tombstone and sat down, cross-legged, adjacent from her. He took a long drag from a cigarette before releasing it in a cloud of smoke. "What are you doing here?"

"Needed a place to read where no one would bother me. Guess I was unsuccessful." Sam waved the book in her hand. "What about you?"

He stared at her for a second. "You _do_ know people work here, right? Who do you think digs all the holes?"

"Oh." She felt stupid. Of course there would be cemetery workers here, guarding this place from robbers and… and people like her.

"I won't tell." He crossed himself above his chest and smiled. "I'm a whiz at keeping secrets."

Sam made a face at the smoke, fanning it from her face, even though he was blowing it away from her, but he didn't seem to get the hint. She raised her book back up, intent to start reading again, but after a second she lowered it. He was still sitting there, smile across his face, enjoying that cigarette. She wrinkled her nose at the smell. The kid really knew how to stare. Sam frowned. "Why don't you go to Casper High?" she blurted.

He blinked. "What?"

"I mean, you're my age, right? I haven't seen you there. It's not a very big school."

"Homeschooled," he stated. "Special needs."

"What sort of special needs?" Sam probed, although she instantly felt bad for asking it. Maybe the kid had some sort of social problem? Maybe that's why he stared? "Sorry," she amended. "You don't have to answer that. You're Danny, right?"

He nodded, once. "And you're Sam. Just Sam."

"What happened to 'Boots'?" Sam kicked out her legs, her black combat boots caked with moss and mud. She tapped them together a few times. Dirt flew off.

The boy peered down at them amusedly. "I knew it," he stated.

"Knew what?" Sam placed the book down, not sure when she had decided to give this Danny kid her undivided attention.

"Knew you liked that." He sighed out a plume of smoke and looked up. Behind the thin veil of fog a wealth of stars littered the sky. Each one seemed to catch and reflect in his eyes. "Although 'Boots' is _so_ last week." He said the line in a high-pitch voice, like reciting a movie.

Sam laughed. It was something she would have said.

He tore his gaze back down at her, aghast, cigarette paused halfway to his lips. "Are you _laughing?_ In a graveyard?"

His expression only served to make her laugh harder. Her chuckles turning into unseemly giggles. She snorted.

He watched her with growing fascination, like he'd never heard anyone snort while laughing before.

She wrangled control of herself. "Yeah, so what?"

"It's against the rules," he said soberly.

She couldn't tell if he was joking or not. She liked that; deadpan humor. "Too late for that," Sam gestured her flashlight out towards the fence she had hopped. "I've never been good at rules."

"You're one of _those,"_ he accused. Then that smile was back. He returned his attentions to his cigarette.

Sam's eyes trailed along it. "You really shouldn't smoke."

A long drag, as if to spite her. "Why not?"

"That shit will kill you."

He laughed. "Doubt it."

"I'd _appreciate_ it if you didn't around me. _You_ might not care about your lungs, but _I_ do," Sam grabbed her book back and placed it defiantly in front of her face. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he stamped out the rest of it. "Thanks," she said, tilting the book, finding him looking at her— glaring at her. The reflection of her flashlight caught in his eyes, a flare of caustic green. She suddenly felt uneasy. Something about him was dark. And while Sam loved dark things, she wasn't so sure she liked the look he was giving her. She almost wished she had just let him smoke it in peace.

Special needs. Was that just a nicer way to say mentally unstable? Criminally insane? She shivered violently, suddenly very aware of how alone she was in a place with many holes for her to fall into and never come out of. She blinked. Where had _that_ train of thought come from?

"You're reading _Dracula_ in a graveyard, alone, at night?" he asked.

"Well, I _was_ reading it," Sam groused. "Until you showed up."

"You don't scare very easy, do you?" he noted. The question hit a funny chord in her. His tone was weird. As if he was calculating what it would take to scare her.

"Why? _Should_ I be scared?" Sam asked lightly, fighting to keep her tone even. She jutted her chin out defiantly at him.

"Yes." He sounded frustrated.

"Well, I'm not." She closed her book and tucked her boots back underneath her. "Don't you have to go work? Dig holes? Walk around? Something?"

"I guard the graveyard. Keeping an eye on intruders _is_ part of my job." He tapped at his temple a few times, winking. Sam relaxed a bit as that sweeter smile came back. Mood swings, this one. Although she wasn't one to judge. She had issues of her own.

"Why'd you move?" he asked.

"Got expelled from my old school district," Sam clipped. "Ripped a girl's hoop earring out and stabbed her in the face with a pen a few times."

"She deserve it?"

Sam glanced up, surprised. It was a strange question to ask. "No. She probably didn't." She glanced down at the moss and the tiny blades of grass, plucking at them, ripping them out of the soil in big handfuls, piling them by her knees. "I don't even remember it all, to be honest. One minute she was shoving me, saying shit, I saw red... the next thing I know the fight was over. It was like someone else took the reins, someone meaner and gutsier than me."

She glanced up to find him considering her.

"You regret it?" he asked.

She hesitated, answer not forthcoming. "Am I a monster if I say no?"

"You're not a monster," he declared, with such conviction that Sam blinked.

"How do you know?" she wondered.

"I know." He leaned closer, the moon washing over his features, defining them. "I know you."

She opened her mouth to tell him to shove it. How could he possibly know her? They had spoken only a handful of times. But, from this distance she could count all the freckles that dusted his cheeks and see the different types of blue in his eyes. Her hostility faded. "You know me, huh?" she challenged. She found that she wanted to believe him. It would be nice, having someone know her. Having a friend.

"I think so, yeah." A tilt of a head, a blush. "A little." He leaned back and cleared his throat after a moment. "So, why'd your parents choose that house?"

"Why are you and Evelyn so interested in it?" Sam shot back, suspicious.

He shrugged. "Everyone in Amity is interested in it. You tell any of your friends at school you live there? I bet you'd be the most popular kid in a heartbeat."

"Why?"

He paused, as if weighing his response. "It's old. Mystery and ghostlore surround it. Anyone that grows up here knows about it and it's not everyday someone moves in. I bet most of the kids in your school would be itching for a peek inside."

Sam scowled. Well, if that was the case she'd have to make sure to keep her mouth shut about it. The last thing she wanted was for the Spirit Club posse to catch wind and actually try to recruit her for real. "What kind of ghostlore?" she couldn't help but ask.

He grinned. "Long story. Maybe another time... it's almost morning."

Sam glanced at her watch. "I should go."

He got up and dusted his pants off. "C'mon. I'll walk you home. Don't want any vampires to get you." He play-snapped his teeth. For a split second Sam was certain they were longer, sharper, but then he was walking away from her down the bluff.

Sam chucked her book back in her backpack and got up, following him through the grave markers and down the soggy hillside. In a span of less than an hour, Sam felt like she had made a friend. Maybe her parents were right. Maybe this whole making friends thing was easier than she thought.

He paused at the gate and unhooked it.

Sam blinked. "Wasn't there a lock on there before?" It swung heavily outward with a slow, steady, squeak.

"Was there?" he asked, following her out. "You climbed over the fence?" He waved a set of keys.

"Smartass," Sam muttered and shut the gate behind her. Together they walked down the sidewalk. The streets were deserted. It was eerie how dead this town got at night. Sam glanced back down at her watch. It was almost three in the morning. Her parents were going to kill her, if they had noticed her missing. She prayed they hadn't checked on her.

Sam felt a prickly icky feeling against the back of her neck. She glanced over her shoulder. Fourteen eyes stared back, suspended like shiny pebbles in the dark, unblinking. She whipped her head around and shuffled closer to Danny. She wasn't sure why, but she felt safer next to him. Under her breath she whispered, "There's seven kids following us."

He glanced at her. "They don't like being looked at. Don't look back and they won't bother us."

"You know them?" Sam breathed. "Why are they following us?"

"Yes."

Despite every muscle and every nerve in her body screaming for her to look again, she kept her gaze forward. They walked in silence until her house grew up out of the fog. It was only when they crept through the side garden that she chanced a peek, but those kids were gone.

"You're new here, so you don't know," he said, nothing but his lips visible in the thick shadow beneath her bedroom window, "This will be the only warning you get: don't trust your eyes or you'll be tricked. Nobody is who they seem. Nobody."

Sam pulled her coat closer, shuddering in the cold autumn breeze. She took his freezing hand and allowed him to hoist her up until she caught the last rung of the fire escape. She hauled herself atop the landing. When she leaned back over the railing, only his blue eyes were visible.

"Not even you?" she whispered down.

" _Especially_ not me. I'm the worst one."

She couldn't tell if he was joking.

* * *

—Diary Entry, I—

Saturday June 21st, 1953

Dear Diary,

Me and Danny are going to visit our uncle for three months. We are on a train. It will take 2 more hours. I am very very angry. Mom said they are almost done with their work and don't want us around. I don't want to go. Amity is far away from my friends. I don't remember our uncle. What if he is mean? Danny cried when we left. I was embarrassed even though he is 6 and I am 8. He thinks Mom and Dad don't like us. I hate my parents. I hate them!

.

Saturday June 21st, 1953

Dear Diary,

The perfect husband:  
1\. Smart  
2\. Loves me  
3\. Likes kids  
4\. Rich

.

Sunday June 22nd, 1953

Dear Diary,

We are at uncle's. He lives in a mansion. There is a pond in the backyard that has tadpoles. Danny is afraid of the house. He said he heard someone crying in it. He doesn't like it, but I think it's really neat. Our uncle is nice. He made us cookies. They were just as good as Mom's. Don't tell her that!

.

Thursday June 26th, 1953

Dear Diary,

I like Amity. I wish Mom and Dad moved back so we could stay here forever. Danny and I played outside in the woods behind the house today. He caught fireflies. They glowed. Then they died.

.

Friday June 27th, 1953

Dear Diary,

Uncle said we are going to camp and fish. I don't want to fish. Girls don't fish.


	3. Walking Behind You

.

〰〰〰

 **03**

Walking Behind You

〰〰〰

In a rare bout of enthusiasm and productivity that only came from the beginning of a new school year, Sam and her two US History partners had gone to the Amity Park Public Library after school on a Tuesday afternoon. To her right, Tucker; to her left a kid named Mikey Voss.

Mikey was skinny and freckled. He had vibrant red hair that was gelled so much it looked wet, thick rimmed glasses that made his brown eyes look enormous, and a set of crooked teeth that were adorned with braces. He spoke in a know-it-all way that grated on Sam's nerves.

After spending about an hour on the internet, they had come to the realization that there was an absence of information about Amity Park from 1950 to 1960. The records were silent when it came to things like elected officials, laws and ordinances that were passed, and any criminal activity.

Tucker had been beyond frustrated.

Hence— the Amity Park library.

"Where do you think the archives are?" Sam asked.

Tucker looked at her blankly and then turned once around the library, gesturing helplessly at the rows upon rows of books. "How should I know?" He scowled darkly and glared around. "Archaic, this place," he muttered to himself.

"We have to ask for permission to enter the archives," Mikey stated in a high-pitched voice. "Anyone who's been to the library at least once knows that."

Tucker sent Mickey a glare.

"Great," Sam said underneath her breath. She tried to ignore the bickering pair as she made her way up to the front desk.

A middle-aged woman glanced up from her book. She peered through her glasses at the trio, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at Sam and all her black clothing, as if she was already up to trouble. "Yes? What is it? The computer stations are in the back."

"Where can we find information about Amity Park in the fifties?" Sam asked.

"What sort of information?"

Tucker leaned forward onto the desk, smiling a flirtatious smile. The more Sam got to know him, the more she realized he behaved this way with most women, regardless of age. Sam tried to appear unembarrassed. "Like any major events that took place, elections, trials, festivals, movements, that kinda stuff."

The librarian smiled. Sam kept her jaw wired shut even though it was threatening to fall open. Did Foley's flirting actually pay off? By the look on Mikey's face, he was just as surprised.

"Oh, well, we have the archives downstairs. But you'll need a pass to get down there." She rooted around behind her desk and pulled out a keycard. "I'll take you."

She wound her way from behind the desk and took off through the Mystery and Romance sections to the back of the building. They had to speed-walk to keep up. As they passed through, Sam gazed up in amazement at the sheer height of the ceiling. It was old. Sometimes she was struck with just how old Amity Park really was. The library had huge gothic columns that stretched up and curved into points. The lighting was by dim chandelier, making the whole place seem hazy and dark. The bookshelves were at least two stories tall in some places, with books of every kind crammed into the nooks and crannies.

"This way, watch your step."

Sam followed the woman through a newer door, the keycard pinging, lock giving way. The archives were down a narrow spiral staircase. As they descended the air seemed to thicken, muffling noise, making everything eerie and sacred.

"Wow," Sam managed as she got her first glimpse at the place. Rows of shelves with faded boxes extended outwards from the door. Metal drawers lined the walls. Harsh fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering every once in awhile.

"You are not allowed to take anything from the archives, but you can place them in that bin over there to save it for when you come back." The woman rooted around in a box for a moment, yanking out a pair of white gloves. "Please only handle things with these. A lot of the stuff down here is fragile. And lastly, when you leave put the time and sign on this sheet."

"Got it," Sam nodded, taking the gloves and slipping them on. She gazed over at Tucker, glad that she wasn't alone, as the librarian retreated back to her post upstairs and the door slammed shut, making the lights flutter and wiggle.

"Now what?" Tucker asked dryly.

"She wasn't very helpful. There's a billion things down here," Mikey said.

Tucker shivered. "This place gives me the creeps."

"Well, let's start by figuring out how they're organized." Sam moved to the first aisle and yanked out a box, seeing it was filled with _Time Magazines_ dating back over fifty years. She felt her heart start to sink. Were things not arranged by date?

"This one has a bunch of _Playboys_ ," Tucker chuckled.

Sam rolled her eyes and shoved the box back, taking in the room. Everything seemed to be misplaced, as if someone had ruffled through each box. Lids were slightly ajar. Sam doubted that anyone had organized this place in years.

"Hey, this one says 1958," Tucker called.

Sam glanced back as Tucker waggled an issue at her. A woman posed on the front in what might have been considered obscene in 1958, the thin strap of her dress falling suggestively off of one shoulder. Despite herself, Sam took a step closer and flipped through it. She snorted. "Awful," she mumbled, trying to quell down her inner righteous feminist as she scanned a few of the centerfolds.

Mikey stole the magazine from her and was looking at the spread like he had never seen something so profane before in his entire life. His ears turned beet red and he put the magazine back in the box, scalded.

"Well, at least we know _Playboy_ was big back then," Tucker grinned. "See? Already learning."

Sam looked at the box with ill-concealed disgust and pushed it back into place. "Great. We can dress up like bunnies and talk about Hugh Hefner and the objectification of women for our final." She placed her hands on her hips. "No, what we need are some _newspapers_ from that time period."

Tucker's shoulders slumped as he gazed around at the hundreds of boxes. He sent her a wry grin. "Got a Snickers?"

.

.

Dusk colored the sky a deep indigo as the trio trudged dejectedly out of the library. Nothing of real importance had been gleaned, despite swimming through tons of information. Sam felt exhausted, like she had inhaled a ton of dust and was slowly petrifying along with the brittle yellowed papers.

"Well, that sucked," Tucker intoned blandly.

Sam's spider backpack was heavy with the weight of American history books. They would probably tell her what she already knew about the fifties. Misogyny, Elvis, suburbia, the Cold War, and the space race. Nothing interesting had been found. Nothing about Amity Park, that's for sure. "Well, at least we know what boxes _not_ to look in," she muttered.

"You don't mean we have to go back?" Tucker whined. His eyebrows knitted together.

"Of course we have to go back. We have to finish the project," Mikey said.

Sam took the cement steps one at a time, slowly, like a funeral march. She gazed about the city. Little windows twinkled light; people rushed around the street preparing for nightfall. This town had the potential to be beautiful. She glanced over at Tucker to see him absorbed by the glow of his phone; took one glance at Mikey to see he was absorbed by the glow from his watch. She rolled her eyes.

"I gotta go," Mikey said suddenly. "Spirit Club starts in a half hour. Paulina will freak if I'm late."

With that parting remark, Mikey shot off down the cement steps and hooked a right. His backpack bounced up and down as he disappeared off down the street.

"Mikey hangs out with the popular kids?" Sam wondered aloud.

"They only let him 'cause he does all their homework for them," Tucker muttered. "It's kind of sad, actually."

"So," she began, "the popular crowd is into ghosts and witchcraft?"

Tucker glanced up from his phone for a brief moment, eyes narrowing. "Yeah, and football and cheerleading. And drinking and bullying."

"They bother you?" Sam asked lightly. She hadn't missed the way Paulina had treated him. Or that Tucker always seemed to pick the back row of the class.

Tucker shrugged bonelessly. "They're whatever. Dash is the annoying one."

Sam tilted her head. "Dash?"

"Baxter," Tucker growled, shoving his phone back into his cargo pants. Together they landed on the last step of the library entrance and started down the sidewalk towards their respective houses. "Loves to shove me around every chance he gets. Did you know you can fit two people in a single locker? If they're skinny enough?"

Sam frowned. "No, I didn't," she mumbled. She adjusted the strap of her backpack nervously. Tucker seemed to notice her hesitation.

"Oh, don't worry. He won't bother you," he said quickly. "You're a girl, you're new, and you're too pretty. I mean, he leaves girls alone, _most_ of the time… man I'm not good at this reassuring thing, huh?"

Sam laughed.

"I'd stay away from Dash, and the rest of them. Don't get why Mikey even likes hanging around with them. They treat him like dirt," Tucker finished. As they reached an intersection he paused. "Anyway. I'm this way. See you tomorrow."

"Night," Sam called.

Tucker took off down the street in the opposite direction from her. His form got swallowed by the descending night. It was just dark enough to make it hard to see, but not yet dark enough for the street lights to come on.

Sam shivered and found herself alone on the sidewalk. She turned left and started down the street. She was _pretty_ sure her house was this way.

That prickly icky sensation was back. The hairs on the back of her neck tensed. She was being watched from behind.

Sam came to an abrupt stop, despite the fact that her body screamed to run. Her hands clenched at her backpack straps and she tilted her head, slightly, to the side, daring to peek behind, but just when she was about to give in to her own curiosity something burst out of the bushes in front of her and she was forced to turn back around.

A dog barreled out onto the sidewalk. It paid no attention to her as it darted into the street like it was being chased, just as…

"Don't—!" Sam lurched to follow, to dive after the dog and grab its collar, but she was too slow. Twin headlights roared down the street as a car sped towards her, tires screeched, a horrible yip accompanied the distinct sound of… of… Sam had never heard bones breaking before, but she knew without a doubt that's what that sound was.

Sam's hands flew over her mouth as she stared at the bloody mess in the street. Had that just happened? It was so fast. The dog had been nothing but a black and white blur.

The driver's side door flew open and someone staggered out. They shuffled into the other lane where the dog had been thrown. It was still; a pulpy lump. With a soft, "Oh my god," they crouched down and hovered a trembling hand above the fur.

Sam's legs carried her off the sidewalk into the street. As she neared the vehicle she saw blood stains, a dent in the fender, and chunks of fur imbedded in the driver's side tire treads.

The driver gazed up at her. She was young, dressed in black, with dark hair and tears streaming down her face. "I didn't see it. I swear, it just ran out, I couldn't stop—," she muttered, pleading her own case. Her frazzled hair illuminated as another car's headlights cast a halo around her hunched form.

Sam opened her mouth to say something, but no words came to mind. Her feet paused. Just as she found the right words _(It wasn't your fault)_ a horn erupted— a trumpeting urgent sound. There was a scream of metal upon metal, of tires desperately trying to fight an engine, and Sam watched as the young woman with dark hair disappeared underneath a black Toyota Prius.

.

.

"Let's go over this one last time. You were walking home from the library, alone, when you witnessed Ms. Scully get struck by oncoming traffic."

Sam nodded.

Her mother's fingernails dug uncomfortably into her shoulders, even through the thick wool blanket that was wrapped around her. "We've already been through this. She needs to go home and rest."

"Yes, Mrs. Manson, but parts of your daughter's story are inconsistent with the scene. We just need to make sure we have her testimony right. These things are best done while the memory is fresh."

"She will speak with you tomorrow. You can ask your questions then. Sammy, honey, let's go home."

Sam closed her eyes slowly. Beyond her eyelids she saw blue and red flashing lights. They whirled, endlessly. That siren felt as if it was still wailing against her eardrums. Her father grappled underneath her armpits and tried to yank her to her feet. With a grimace she reopened her eyes and stopped. "No. I'll tell them again," she said. Her feet found their grounding and rooted.

Her parents paused. "You've already helped them enough, baby," her father murmured gently.

Sam sat back down on the uncomfortable plastic chair. Above her fluorescent lights buzzed. This police station was filled with cheap government-purchased chairs, old wooden desks, and policemen milling about. She could hear the distant sound of a fax machine printing.

She gazed at the African-American policeman, at his badge: _Damon Gray, Amity Park Police Department,_ and wondered if he had any relation to Valerie Gray.

He gave her a reassuring smile.

"Ask away," she said.

"Where were you tonight?"

"Amity Park Library, the archives. I signed out at seven fifteen and started walking home."

The officer nodded. "And then?"

"I got a weird feeling so I stopped… walking, that is," Sam continued. She reached out from the blanket to grasp at a mug of hot coffee. Usually her parents wouldn't allow caffeine, but they said nothing. The heat from the mug spread through her hands. It was only after grasping something so hot that she realized how cold she was.

"Where did you have this feeling?" Officer Gray asked.

"I don't know," Sam said. "Pine street. I was somewhere on Pine."

"Then what happened?"

"An animal flew out from the bushes in front of me. A dog. Black and white spots. Medium sized. Before I could stop it, it ran into the street and was hit by a car."

"Which way did it run?"

Sam gestured, waving her hand from left to right.

"Ms. Scully's car? Can you describe the car?"

Sam frowned. "Uh… it was a sedan. Small. Four door. I can't remember what color… Blue maybe?"

"That's alright," Officer Gray said warmly. "Now, you're sure it was a dog that made Ms. Scully stop?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. She was crying because she hit it. Another car came out of nowhere and she was gone. Dead." Sam took a huge gulp of coffee. It burned her tongue.

"Alright. Thanks for speaking with me. I know you've been through a lot tonight." The officer looked up at her parents and gave them a small frown and a nod. "Usually we would have her speak to a councillor, but we're understaffed at the moment. Don't be surprised if someone checks in on her later this week. That's all I have for now. Take care of her."

Her father hoisted her up again. He pinned her tightly to his side.

The car right home was silent. Like meerkats, her parents darted quick glances in the rearview mirror back at her, worry lining their faces. They took the long route home to avoid the road closure where Amanda Scully's body had been strewn across asphalt. Didn't matter. Sam had witnessed it all. The smell of burnt rubber; Scully's body folded in half, spine snapped, the car lurching and jolting over her frame; the sound of her skull cracking open, and a hand, limp, red nail polish, pointing directly at Sam in a growing pool of blood.

"I'm fine," Sam uttered, even though no one had asked her. She ran her burned tongue across her teeth. Her eyes flicked from streetlamp to streetlamp. They were on now, and they wavered and blurred as if underwater. She knew she should cry. Most people would cry in this situation, but the thought of it was exhausting. She felt numbed to the whole idea. "I'm alright," she told herself instead. "I'm fine."

* * *

—Police Report—

Date of Incident: 09-25-15  
Type of Incident: Suicide  
Officer: Damon Grey  
Amity Park Police Department

***Officer's Case Report***

At approximately 9:45pm Amity Park County Communications Office received a 9-1-1 call reporting that an adult female had been struck by oncoming traffic at the corner of Truth and Pine.

I was three blocks away at the time of the dispatch, filling up gas at the Chevron station at 144 Truth St. I called in and drove to the scene. I arrived before paramedics.

Upon arrival at the scene I observed a black Toyota Prius license #RWQ-423 OH spun horizontally, blocking the left lane of the road. A blue Honda Accord license #ROX-966 OH was parked on the opposite side of the road against the curb.

A young man (dark hair, 140lbs, late 20's, later identified as Eric Cross) was standing several feet away from the driver's side door of the Toyota Prius. To his right, near the Prius's passenger-side front wheel a woman lay face down on the pavement.

The man told me the woman had purposefully ran out in front of his car. I approached the woman and took her pulse. She was dead at the scene.

Several feet away a young woman (dark hair, 100lbs, 16 or 17, later identified as Samantha Manson) was sitting on the curb next to the parked Honda Accord. She reported that she was walking home from the library when she witnessed the woman get struck by the Prius.

I took down each witness's testimony, taped off the scene, and waited for backup.


	4. Please, Please Believe Me

.

〰〰〰

 **04**

Please, Please Believe Me

〰〰〰

 _"—Expect traffic delays this morning. Pine street is closed between Truth and Wellington—"_

Sam wound down the stairs and entered the ripped up kitchen. She avoided the basket of peaches and grabbed a piece of toast, sliding atop a barstool, half-listening to the news as her mother cooked some soy sausages and hummed merrily as if to drown out the reporter's voice.

"Morning, honey," her mother greeted. "How are you feeling?"

 _"—the result of the apparent—"_

Awful. Tired. Sam had laid awake for most of last night, replaying what had happened over and over. She wasn't sure if the images in her head were even true anymore, or if her memory had made them _more_ gruesome. The hour and a half of sleep she did get had been fraught with nightmares. More than once she had woken up, breathless, with the distinct, unshakeable feeling that someone— or something— was after her.

Sam stuffed her mouth with bread, chewing without taste. The loaf soaked up any moisture she had left. She choked. Her appetite fled and she put the rest of the bread down.

Her mother poured her a cup of orange juice and scooted it over to her across a plywood board. Much of the old finished had already been torn out to make way for the renovation.

Sam took a swig of it. "Is this new?" she asked, pointing at the dark wood cabinetry.

 _"—suicide of twenty-two year old—"_

"Oh that?" her mother piped up, eyes dancing. "I had it installed yesterday. What do you think?"

 _"—Amanda Scully who was struck by oncoming traffic early last night. This is the first suicide case since—"_

Sam frowned. "It's nice," she admitted. Although, she wasn't entirely sure if it was eco friendly. "Was it shipped from some remote place, wasting gas and—?"

"No," her mother interrupted. "It was sourced ecologically."

 _"—string of suicides three years ago—"_

Sam paused, thrown off guard. "Really?" she asked, searching her mother's face for some kind of lie. Her parents rarely took her environmental causes seriously. Her mother sniffed, flicking the sausages and lamenting softly at the burned pieces. Sam narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

 _"—culminating in thirty-nine year old Evelyn Gray's—"_

Pamela sighed. She plucked the sausages off of the grill and onto a plate, half of them blackened. "I don't think they're edible."

Sam poked at them for a moment. "It's alright," she sighed. Wasn't like she was hungry anyways.

 _"—in the Masters villa—"_

"Weather looks nice this morning," Pamela noted.

 _"—And now we'll go to Lance Thunder, with the weather."_

"Yeah, looks sunny."

 _"Gonna be a sunny one, Tiffany."_

.

.

News traveled fast in Amity Park.

The minute she stepped inside the school all eyes swiveled and stuck to her. Whisperings followed as she passed. Whenever she sent glares their way the students quickly spun around and pretended to pay attention to something else.

Sam yanked her locker door open and fished around inside for her math book. When she moved to slam it shut, she found herself face to face with Paulina Jimenez-Sanchez. Despite herself, she jumped, her heart galloping wildly in her chest.

Paulina's eyes were wide and curious. "How was your night?" she asked.

Sam hesitated. "Uh…"

"We heard you were there when it happened," Paulina continued. She gestured behind Sam. Sam turned to see Dash, Star, and Mikey watching her curiously from a few feet back. "Is it true?"

"Yes," Sam stated shortly, and finished shutting her locker door.

"Must have been horrible," Paulina whispered. There was a strange tone in her voice. Almost reverence. It made Sam pause and stare at her curiously. "If you want to talk about it, you can always talk to me," Paulina finished, placing a manicured hand atop her chest.

"Thanks," Sam gritted. _Don't make enemies,_ she reminded herself. "I'm late for homeroom." She took a step to move around Paulina but the girl side-stepped and blocked her way. Sam tried left, Paulina moved left. Sam tried right, Paulina went right.

"Oopsie!" Paulina giggled. _"Lo siento_. Talk to you later." She stepped fully out of the way.

Sam restrained herself from lashing out. If anyone was going to test her admittedly shaky patience, it was going to be this girl. Instead of picking a fight, she hunched her shoulders and stormed her way through everyone, ignoring the stares.

.

.

As sixth period neared, Sam took a seat in the far back of her US History class and propped up her book so that it covered her face. If she slumped a little she could hide almost fully behind it. She knew, of course, that other people could still see her, but it was a small comfort to not have to see them seeing her.

"You stole my chair," Tucker grumbled, sliding into the seat next to her. "I usually sulk in the back. You trying to steal my thunder? I thought you had your own punk thing going on."

Sam's lip twitched. Her mood lightened a touch. She let the book fall back against the desk with a sharp _thud_ , causing everyone to whip their heads around and look at her. She leaned back and tilted her chin defiantly. _Say it. Do it. Bring it on._ "Thought this chair looked comfortable. You want it back? I'll move."

"No, you're gonna need it." Tucker shook his head. "You're the talk of the town."

"Already?" She hadn't even ripped out anyone's earring yet.

"Sorry I didn't walk you home last night," Tucker said earnestly.

Sam glanced sideways at him and shrugged. "Better you didn't. Both of us didn't need to see that."

"So…" Tucker paused, weighing his options. Sam knew what he was going to ask. It was a question she had been asked multiple times already. She gritted her teeth. "...What happened?"

"Dog ran out into the street, got hit. Girl ran out into the street because of the dog, got hit," Sam summarized.

"Everyone's saying it was a suicide," Tucker whispered, leaning into her as he scooted his desk and chair an inch or two closer. "The news didn't mention a dog. People think you're lying."

"I'm not lying. Why would I lie?" Sam snapped. The class broke out into whispers. Sam grimaced and lowered her voice. "I saw what I saw. It wasn't a suicide. It was an accident." She gazed over at Tucker and couldn't tell what he was thinking behind those glasses. The brim of his hat shaded the top of his eyes. "... _You_ believe me, right?"

He said nothing for a long beat. "I believe… that it's a good thing _you_ didn't run out into the street."

Sam bristled and opened her mouth to give a scathing reply that she could _take care of herself, thank you very much,_ but she paused. She closed her mouth. After all, she had been five long strides away from taking Amanda's place underneath that oncoming car. She had run off the sidewalk with every intention of grabbing that dog…

Tucker seemed to sense what she was thinking. "You need to be more careful."

Sam huffed and propped her book back up. She kept her face impassive, but inside her thoughts were whirling. She thought of Danny's warning. She _had_ seen a dog. So why were all the reports saying Amanda Scully had _stepped_ in front of the oncoming car?

.

.

Sam rode her bike down the same stretch of road back home after school. She had to see it for herself. As she neared Pine and Truth dread pooled deep in her stomach, turning it sour and tight. She pressed onward, regardless. The sun shone down, warming the crisp September air.

As she approached the intersection she saw the police had finished their investigation. The street was open again, and there was hardly anything to say an accident had taken place. Not unless you knew where to look.

Sam paused and got off her bike to gaze down at the skid marks that scarred the road. She blinked. There was only one pair. Her hands clenched her handlebars. There were faint stains where Scully had bled across the pavement. Sam wondered if the next rain would wash it away, or if it would linger, the way a nuclear blast stained shadow people across walls.

Sam crouched down to the pavement and tried to find any evidence of a dog— any stray dog hair— but there was nothing. She even retraced her steps back to the sidewalk where the dog had jumped from the bushes, she trudged around the brush looking for some sort of sign, but there was nothing.

Having seen enough to placate her own curiosity, she got back on her bike.

Sam whizzed down each block. She absorbed the way the leaves fell gently, the way the distant sound of a train echoed throughout the valley, and the way the crisp fall air stung her cheeks. Anything to avoid thinking about Amanda Scully.

As soon as she stepped inside the house she knew something was up. There was an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway. Not one of the vans that were getting more and more common the more her mother remodeled the house— no, this was a personal car.

"Samantha. You're home. Good," her father greeted her, blocking her usual route. After school Sam loved to drift up the stairs and into her room. She spent most of her afternoons avoiding her parents.

Her father grabbed her shoulders and directed her towards the living room. Her mother had recently purchased new furnishings. Two Dutch-modern couches unfolded in front of her. Sitting on one was her mother. Sitting atop the other was a woman she had never met before.

"Who're you?" Sam asked bluntly. She knew she was rude. She didn't care.

"Sammy, this is Ms. Spectra. She's a counselor from the school. She wanted to speak with you about what happened last night," her mother introduced.

Sam gazed up at her father, before glancing back over to the woman who was perched, stiffly, atop the armchair. In her hands was a notebook and a pen. Her hair was immaculate. She held onto her smile too confidently. "You can call me Penelope. It's nice to meet you." She reached her hand out, clearly expecting a handshake.

Sam dropped her backpack to the hardwood floor with a heavy bang and scowled. She knew _exactly_ what this was. "You're a shrink. I don't need a shrink. I'm _fine_." Sam violently shrugged her father's hand off of her shoulder.

"Please sit down, Samantha," Spectra said gently. "I want to talk."

"My mother paid you to talk to me, didn't she?" Sam snapped. _Figures._ Her mom loved to avoid having intense mother-daughter conversations in lieu of just hiring out professional help. After everything that had happened… with the fights and… Sam had been subjected to a number of psychiatrists, all more irritating than the next.

"Your mother and I are worried," her father said cautiously. "You don't talk to us anymore." He gently pushed her into the opposite chair of Ms. Spectra.

Sam plopped down into it, finding herself sandwiched by her mother and this psychiatrist. She ground her teeth. "That's because you never ask the right questions," she muttered.

Penelope Spectra was unfazed by Sam's attitude. She probably dealt with unruly teens all the time. "You've been through a lot of trauma recently. Your parents are just concerned that what happened last night, given your recent move and your—"

"I'm _fine,_ " Sam interrupted.

"Well, that's great to hear," Spectra said smoothly.

Sam clamped her jaw shut.

"Sam… I can call you Sam, right?" Spectra paused. Sam said nothing. Spectra continued onward, ignoring the glare. "How have you been sleeping?"

"I haven't," Sam said blandly. "I saw a girl get run over by a car."

"Have you been experiencing any nightmares while awake?"

Sam tensed. "What do you mean? Like seeing things? Things that don't exist?"

Spectra wrote in her notebook for a second. "So you have?"

"Is this about the dog? Is that why everyone's freaking out? Look, I made it up. There wasn't a dog, ok? I don't know why I lied, but I lied. No dog. We good? Can I go to my room now?"

Her mother frowned.

"I'm done talking with shrinks." Sam stood. "If you and Mom want to talk, I'll be upstairs." She stormed out of the living room and bounded up the stairs. She whirled into her room and slammed the door shut as loud as she could, which was impressively loud considering it was a solid oak door. Arms crossed, she glared at it and sat on the edge of her bed, half expecting her father to force her to go back downstairs.

"I saw a dog," Sam whispered at the door. "I saw a god damn dog." Her whisperings turned hysterical. Her breath caught in her throat. "I _saw_ it. I swear."

.

.

A half hour later her mother came into her room, furious. Sam could tell because Pamela's fists were drawn tightly to her sides and her smile looked agonizing, like it was taking all of her might to keep the corners of her mouth upturned. The result was that she looked like she wanted to bite Sam. Sam laughed, and then sobered instantly. Her mother wasn't amused.

"Honey, why were you so rude to Ms. Spectra?"

Sam scowled and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I don't need a shrink. I can't believe you guys hired her without even telling me."

"We didn't hire her," her mother snapped. "She came on her own accord. She was concerned for you. You'll have to speak to her again eventually." She sat down next to where Sam was lying on her bed. She reached out and brushed some of Sam's bangs out of her face.

"She doesn't even know me," Sam muttered petulantly, well aware she sounded childish.

" _No_ one knows you, Sam," Pamela sighed.

That wasn't true. There was someone that claimed to know her. Sam's eyes flicked to her window, to the fire escape, her mind following that tangent to the graveyard where Mr. Blue was no doubt working. Sam echoed her mother's sigh.

"How do you want us to try?" Pamela asked, her hand drawing back into her sides. Her voice grew defensive. "Tell me, Samantha, because I'm all ears. I feel like I've tried _everything_ to get through to you, but you keep shoving me away. What do you want me to do?"

That meanness within her, always simmering beneath the surface, bubbled forward. Sam found herself inexplicably angry. "I want you to stop buying shrinks that you think will magically make all of this better," Sam exploded. "Stop thinking money will solve this. Nothing's gonna solve this. I. Am. Not. Sick."

"You won't let your dad and I help you, so what else are we supposed to do? Nothing?" Pamela snapped right back. "Just let you get in fights, get expelled, throw your life away? Not care?"

"Maybe this isn't something that can be fixed! Maybe instead of trying to make things go back the way they were, you could _listen!_ " Sam threw up her arms and made a punching gesture into the air before letting them flop back against her sides. " _Listen_ to me for once! Stop telling me what to do and how to feel and just shut up and _listen!_ "

"Tell me," her mother goaded, hysteric. "I'm here. Tell me. I'm listening. What do you want? I don't know what you want from me."

"I want you to stop pretending everything's perfect!" Sam screamed. "I want you to stop waiting around for me to get over it. I want you to stop talking about the weather when a girl _died in front of me last night!_ " Sam grabbed her pillows and threw them. "Stop being so _fake!_ "

Her mother deflected the first two pillows, but the third hit her square in the face. "I swear, Samantha Jean Manson. Sometimes I just want to _strangle_ you," she hissed, her hair miffed, eyes gleaming strangely in the low light.

"Yeah? _Do_ it," Sam challenged.

Pamela left instead, slamming the door in her wake.

Sam panted. The brief flush of victory faded as she listened to her mother's muffled sobs down the hallway. Guilt gnawed in her guts. She hadn't meant all that. What was wrong with her? Everything was her fault.

Sam laid onto her stomach and buried her face into her last remaining pillow. She squeezed her eyes shut and screamed _'I hate you's'_ into it, not sure who, exactly, she hated more— herself or her mother– until all that was left was breathless emptiness.

.

.

She was alone in a room with no features. Loneliness crippled her. She just lost everything. Gasping for air, she bowed her head, as if gravity had doubled, tripled, for her and her alone. She gazed down at her naked body and found she was covered in mosquitoes. A maddening buzzing noise filled her ears. They were _inside_ her ears, nesting within her. The wings fluttered against her mouth and down her throat. She tried a scream. Dozens of them flew out and came back to rest upon her cheeks. She watched as, in one simultaneous choreographed dance, they pierced their needles into her and sucked all the life right out.

Sam woke with a jolt.

She peered up at the old ceiling at the crack that fractured the room in half. She traced that crack several times to root herself before her gaze rested to her vanity where, next her mirror, a dark-haired girl stared back.

Sam blinked, unsure if she was seeing correctly. Was she dreaming? The girl was still there, blue eyes staring back at her, face blank. She was crisp and defined, dressed in a red sweater and flared jeans. She swayed back and forth.

Sam blinked again and tilted her head from side to side, heart hammering in her chest, as she told herself that this vision before her was just a trick. A shadow. A dream? She slowly sat up in her bed, yet the girl persisted.

"Better watch out," the hallucination warned.

"Why?" Sam asked. She darted her hand out, blindly, in the darkness until she hit her lamp. Light flooded the room. The girl vanished. In her place was Sam's black winter coat, swaying gently, caught in some kind of draft. Sam let out a breath of air she didn't know she had been holding. Must have still been dreaming.

With a sigh she swung the covers off and padded out of her room. She hooked a right towards the staircase with the intent to grab a glass of water from the kitchen below. As she descended the stairs she saw the light was already on, a soft old amber that bathed the bottom floor in a gentle glow. Sam paused and listened for any sign that her parents were still up and talking about her. No voices, but a weird repetitive _shhhhhhhhing… shhhhhhhhing.._.

Curious, Sam crept her way into the kitchen. Her father's back was to her as he leaned, hunched, over the new kitchen island.

"Dad?" Sam whispered. "What are you doing?"

He turned slightly. Sam's eye caught the glint from the edge of a knife. It reflected the light and sent it sizzling towards her, sharp and unforgiving. Her chest caught.

"Samantha?" her father murmured. His eyes were half-lidded and dilated, his movements jerky. Sleepwalking. Sleep-sharpening-knives. "Why are you up?" He deliberately sheathed the knife back into the knife block and set down the sharpener onto the counter.

"Couldn't sleep," Sam said slowly. "What were you doing?" Her eyes trailed along the rack of knives uneasily.

Her father's brow furrowed and he looked around at the kitchen and then down at himself as if he could hardly believe it. "Nothing," he stated. "I was doing nothing. Goodnight." He glided out of the kitchen and was swallowed by darkness.

Sam's gaze lingered upon the knives for a minute, before she shook her head and got her glass of water. When she returned to her room her curtains were swaying gently, back and forth, just like that girl, window wide open.

.

.

Sam ripped a flyer off of the wall near her locker and glared down at it. As September drew to a close and October began, the entire town seemed to chatter on and on about Halloween. Sam was learning first hand how it was one of the most widely celebrated holidays in Amity Park. She turned the orange and black flyer around in her hand. A little clipart ghost with a friendly smile was shooting out of a tombstone that read "Casper".

 _Cross over to the dark side!_  
Spirit Club's Annual Halloween Gala  
Location: TBD  
8pm, October 31st  
Meetings: Dusk - 10pm, Tuesday nights, Roswell & Union

"Are they serious?" Sam asked aloud, knowing without a doubt that the ghost clipart had been Paulina's idea.

" _Dead_ serious," a voice said to her right.

Sam frowned and glanced over to see Tucker looking rather pleased with himself. She folded the flyer in half and shoved it into her spider backpack.

Tucker stared, clearly waiting for a laugh.

She scowled, unwilling to deal with Foley. She had been plagued by nightmares for the past week, her mother was still pretending she didn't exist, and her mind kept replaying how that dog's guts had spilled across the ground over and over. Dog guts that— according to everyone else— didn't exist. That familiar depressive cloud was rolling in. Instead of running from it she wanted to lose herself in its obscurity. She swung her backpack over her shoulders and made for the exit.

Tucker trailed behind. "Hey, are we going to the library?" he asked tentatively, weaving in and out of the crowd.

It was Wednesday. They worked on their project on Wednesdays, but Sam didn't have the energy. She opened her mouth to tell him to bug off, but he was suddenly sprawled across the floor, his glasses clattering across the tile into the middle of the busy hallway.

"Watch where you're going, _Foul_ ey," Dash sneered. He withdrew the foot he had used to trip Tucker before anyone could notice. A conniving gleam winked in Dash's eye.

Sam scooped up Tucker's glasses before they got stepped on and grabbed him by the arm, yanking him upright.

Dash's eyes narrowed. He glared at her as if he expected her to say something. He was one of those boys always itching for a fight.

Sam _wanted_ to say something. Lately she was one of those girls always itching for a fight too. Most times she looked down and found her hands pre-curled into fists, but she took a few deep breaths, shoved Tucker's glasses into his hands, and left the school as quickly as possible. Outside on the lawn she fumbled with the keys to her bike lock. She missed the keyhole twice. It was all the time Tucker needed to catch up.

"Hey," Tucker gasped, out of breath, as he stumbled to her side and leaned against the metal bike rack. "Thanks."

Sam didn't know why she was so angry at him. Maybe because he was always so goddamn happy all the time and she wasn't. Maybe because he let people bully him around and never stood up for himself. Maybe because he couldn't take a hint. He was one of those puppy-dog types. He hovered over her, incessantly. Asked her tough questions, pried into her life, annoyed the shit out of her most of the time…

Sam yanked her bike out of the rack and quickly walked it around to the side of the street. Still, Tucker followed. "Are you avoiding me?" he asked.

"Yes," Sam clipped.

Tucker's eyebrows knitted together. "Why? Because you're still upset about the suicide?"

"It _wasn't a suicide_ ," Sam grated, hurt. "I _told_ you it wasn't a suicide." She flipped her leg over the bike and sat atop, but just as she prepared to push off of the curb, Tucker stood directly in her way.

"Move," Sam grumbled. She twisted the handlebars to make the front wheel whack against the side of Tucker's leg. Her irritation lit and exploded into white hot anger the more he refused to let her pass. First her parents, now him? Why couldn't people just leave her alone? All she wanted anymore was to be left alone.

"No," he huffed. "Why'd you keep the flyer?"

"What?"

"The gala. On Halloween. You're gonna go?"

"That's none of your business, _Foul_ ey," Sam snapped. "Why do you care so much if I join that club or not? Afraid I'll get popular and stop hanging out with you?"

Tucker flinched.

Sam knew she hit the nail on the head. Immediately she felt horrible, but swallowed her apology. If hurting his feelings would get him to stop pestering her, then so be it. She wondered if this was why she could never keep a friend. Because, really, deep down inside, she felt as if she didn't deserve one. Still, he remained in her way. Each time she tried to go around he followed. She resisted the urge to plow right through him.

"I thought you were cool," Tucker said mournfully. That— more than anything else— pissed her off most of all.

He let go of her handlebars and took a few steps to the left. She shoved her bike around him and propelled off the curb.

When she looked over her shoulder she saw him watching all betrayed and deflated like a kindergartner watching his parents drive away on the first day of school.

As she rode home she felt guilt start to creep into her stomach and she slowed her frantic pace to a crawl. Tucker had been one of the only people to befriend her since moving here.

Sam shook her head and frowned. She didn't need anyone. She was better off alone.

Her shoulders slumped. But... she shouldn't have to be so mean to him. She had been just like Dash. A bully.

Her lips tightened. Was she _really_ feeling sorry for this kid? Tucker would probably be over it by tomorrow. He was annoyingly upbeat.

She weaved. What if he wasn't over it? What if he would never be over it? What if he was just as lonely as she was? Just as sad? Only he hid it behind flirty grins and ostentatious hats instead of sarcasm and hastily thrown punches?

Sam groaned and skidded to a stop. Hardly believing it, she yanked the bike around and pedalled back towards the school as fast as she could. As she rounded the block she caught the sight of his red beret bobbing down the street, ducked, alone. She bit her lip at the sight. As she pulled up to his side she hopped off of her bike and walked it next to him. He refused to look up at her.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said."

He shot her a sideways glance, eyes obscured by his hat.

"I've been angry lately," Sam continued. "I have… I'm not very good at… at people."

Tucker paused. He turned to face her and she could see the moisture clinging to his eyelashes. Sam remembered the sound of her mother's sobs. It seemed she was best at spreading her own unique brand of misery. Maybe she should patent it.

Tucker gave her a wavering grin. "Wanna go to the Valley of Unrest?"

"Sure," Sam said before she processed the question, relieved he wasn't going to make her talk anymore about it, relieved that he seemed to forgive her. She made a face. "Wait, where—?"

"It's just a stupid name the Spirit Club gave the Amity Park junkyard," Tucker explained. He continued walking and Sam fell in line next to his side. "They love to rename things after Edgar Allan Poe stuff. Used to be called just 'The Valley'. Rumor says it's haunted. Then again, most stuff here is rumored to be haunted."

"...And why would we go there?" Sam asked slowly.

"Because" —Tucker grinned— "Amanda Scully's car was impounded there last night."


	5. Mr Blue

.

〰〰〰

 **05**

Mr. Blue

〰〰〰

It was nearing sundown when, on the outskirts of Amity Park, Sam Manson found herself standing beside a thick forest, two tires, and a Port-a-Potty. She gazed amongst the heaps of waste with a sense of hopelessness. Tucker was right. This junkyard _was_ haunted. Haunted by the corpses of rusting twice-used appliances, consumed and disposed of through mankind's own gluttony—

"Cool!" Tucker's voice broke into her philosophical internal monologue. He held up a contraption. "It's an egg poacher," he explained.

Sam rolled her eyes and stepped lightly across the gravel thing-infested walkway. Metal pieces scattered underneath her boots. Plastic bags haunted the ground, floating like little ghosts. "Focus, Foley. We're on a mission. That mission doesn't involve egg poachers."

"Right." He straightened his cap. "The cars are over there."

Sam wrapped her coat further around herself and took off in the direction he had gestured at. As she wound around one of the rows she caught sight of stacks and stacks of crushed cars. Behind them hundreds of cars that still awaited impaction were parked.

Amity Park's junkyard was along the city limits. They had passed the Amity Park welcome sign on their way here: _Amity Park, a nice place to live._ The yard was shared with Amity Park's sister city, Elmerton. This caused it to be huge and overflowing with unorganized waste. Rows and rows of it spread out, barely contained, in front of her. The outermost reaches of the yard faded into mist. Sam could see a treeline maybe a mile away that marked the end of it.

"How are we going to find it?" she asked, heart plummeting at the sight of all the cars.

"We look," Tucker said, unhelpfully.

"You take the left, I'll take the right. It has to be with the newer-looking cars. It's probably somewhere where they can drive it out of the lot easy whenever her family comes to get it," Sam reasoned. She spun and walked, alone, to the right side of the lot. Rusting cars flicked past her. 1998 Honda Accords… 1984 Ford something-or-others… 1991 garbage…

.

.

"Find anything?" Tucker asked, coming up behind her.

"No. You?"

"No. Sorry. It's getting dark. We should go before the sun sets," Tucker said. He stared at her from behind his fogged glasses. Night was descending, bringing with it a frosty chill.

"Why? You have a curfew?" Sam teased. She ignored the fact that, technically, she had one as well.

"No. Let's just say night isn't the best time to be out and about in Amity Park." Tucker shuddered.

Sam laughed. "Oh come on, you too Tucker? You believe in this cultish voodoo nonsense?"

Tucker flushed. "You _don't?_ You saw one yourself, last week." He gestured helplessly around at this place, as if to say: Why else are we here?

"The dog?" Sam asked.

Tucker nodded. "If we find this car and prove the dog doesn't exist, will you believe in ghosts?"

Sam didn't know. The whole thing seemed farfetched. She reached inside her backpack and withdrew her trusty flashlight. She flicked it on and cast the beam out in front of them. "Let's just find the car. If we don't find it in a half hour we can go."

Tucker gazed up at the pink sky, at the fading sun as it dipped beneath the forest in the distance, before he sighed and nodded. "Let's make this fast," he muttered.

Sam scowled. Ghosts didn't exist. She was a realist, a scientist, and even a part-Atheist. She had seen a dog. If what she had seen could be disproven, then, and only then, would she begin to question some of those beliefs.

Together they scanned a few rows. The sun disappeared fully, leaving them in what would have been almost complete darkness if not for the steel lamp posts that were scattered about the yard. Sam was about to call it quits when her flashlight caught something familiar.

"There," she whispered. "That's it."

There was no doubt. That was Amanda's car. As Sam and Tucker drew closer, Sam noted that it looked perfect. No dents in the front bumper; no blood right off the bat. Of course, someone had washed the car. Sam frowned and crouched down low next to the front-right bumper. But… the dog had to have left a dent. There wasn't one.

Tucker held the flashlight out in front for her. "See what you need?" he asked anxiously.

"One second," Sam murmured. "Can you shine the light down to the tire?"

Tucker adjusted the beam.

Sam leaned closer and peered into the tire treads. The grisly image of the dog's matted fur stuck within the treads of the tire had been one that had been permanently ingrained. And yet, these tires didn't have any gore imbedded in them. They must have washed them, Sam thought. But, there was a thick coat of dirt and grime on them, as if they hadn't been washed since Scully had purchased the car.

"Sam?" Tucker whispered. The light disappeared as Tucker cast it out nervously across the yard. "It's time to go. I feel like we're being watched."

Sam stared down into the darkness where she knew that tire was. Little balls of green light danced in front of her eyes from the sudden absence of bright light. She crouched, stunned, in silence. The dog hadn't been real? Maybe this was the wrong car. But her gut knew it was the right one. It was roiling right now, telling her that she had been tricked, duped. She got the distinct feeling she had been ripped off. Her hands drew into fists as anger flooded through her at the thought that she might never know what happened. Sam shook her head. Ever since the accident guilt had been clawing its way through her. She was _going_ to find out what had happened to Amanda Scully. She had to. She had to make sure it hadn't been her fault.

"Look what we have here," a cold voice said from her left.

Tucker gasped loudly and flung the flashlight's beam out.

Sam stumbled upright and took a few steps back as a large man with dirty blue overalls stepped out of the shadow, eyeing the pair of them suspiciously. He wore a nametag, but the name was smeared with soot. He had appeared suddenly, without any noise.

"A pair of trespassers."

"We were just leaving," Sam managed out. She fought to keep her voice level. "We're sorry. We didn't know we were trespassing."

Sam noted that the temperature suddenly dipped. She could see her own breath hanging in the air. She spun, grabbed Tucker by the arm, and moved to get away as quickly as she could, but the man stepped in front of her way. He was _fast._

"Didn't know?" he growled. "You two can't read?" He gestured at the gate which Sam and Tucker had clipped the lock a few hours before, where, hanging limply a sign that declared, in yellow no-nonsense type: NO TRESPASSING. "People these days, breaking into here, thinking they can just take whatever they want—" The man took a menacing step towards them and Sam felt Tucker's hand on hers clench in surprise.

"We weren't stealing," Sam soothed. "We were just taking a look around, it was a dumb joke really. A dare."

"Sam, something's wrong," Tucker whispered underneath his breath, "Something's _really_ wrong about this."

"—Thinking they can just steal what's mine. I guard this place, got it? You can't just come in here without consequences."

Sam's back hit the side of a car. Tucker huddled to her right. Trapped, the two of them turned to face each other, gazing wide-eyed up, the red paint from the car caught and reflected in the man's eyes making them gleam with madness. The faint smell of cigarette smoke wafted through the air.

Sam balled her hands into fists. A "fuck you" welled up and filled her mouth, dancing upon her tongue, but she clamped it down. More angry than afraid, she grabbed the flashlight from Tucker and prepared to swing it right into the man's crotch.

"Leave them alone, Max," a voice rang out to her right, clear as day— a familiar voice. Sam's head whipped over to the source, bringing the flashlight up with it, revealing _him_ in the harsh lighting.

Tucker went rigid next to her.

"Danny," Sam greeted in surprise. Relief flooded through her.

"They were trespassing. Stealing!" Max growled. He pointed a crusty finger at Sam, hovering inches from pressing it accusingly against her collarbone.

With a sharp smack the boy whacked Max's arm away. "She doesn't want your useless crap. She was just looking for a dog," he said, tossing Sam a wink.

Sam froze. _How did he—?_

"I should tie them up, take their hands! Chop them right off. No one comes into _my_ territory and takes _my_ things—" Max shot the boy a look. "No one except _you_ , of course."

"I'll keep an eye on her," the gravekeeper vouched, nodding in Sam's direction.

Max retreated down the row, grumbling all the way about youngsters and hoodlums.

When he faded out of sight, she turned to the gravekeeper. She noted he had on yet another sweater. This one was sky blue with a red and white striped trim. "Thanks," she said.

A shrug. "He's harmless."

Sam shivered. She hardly considered wanting to chop their hands off 'harmless.' She made a face. "Why are _you_ here?"

"Geeze. You're _welcome,_ " he said in mock outrage. Then his expression grew serious. "I heard about what happened last week. You okay?"

"I'm fine," she huffed.

"Let's go," Tucker interrupted from her left. He tugged on her arm over and over. Sam glanced at him and saw his pale terror-filled face. "Right now, Sam. We need to go right _now."_

"Hang on." Sam ripped her arm out of Tucker's grasp. She gestured towards the boy who was now leaning against the hood of the opposite car, eying the pair of them. "Tucker, meet Danny. Danny, Tucker."

She turned and found Tucker missing. He was running full tilt towards where they had broken in. Feeling indignant, and a little abandoned, Sam muttered a short apology to the gravekeeper and started running after Tucker.

"You're so rude!" she panted as she caught up. Together they stumbled to a halt and Tucker grabbed ahold of the wire gate, shoving it open, but it refused to budge. They both stared down at the lock. They had clipped it not two hours ago. It was in place now, unclipped.

"But we—" Sam struggled. "How—"

"I told you Sam!" Tucker shrieked. He shook the gate frantically a few times, but it refused to give way. "I _told_ you we should have left at sundown! Now they have us trapped!"

"Calm down," Sam hissed. "I bet this is just the wrong gate." She reached around for her backpack and felt around inside it for the bolt cutters, but they were gone. Her eyes widened.

"They're gone," Tucker guessed. "We're trapped. They have us right where they want us. I'm so stupid!"

Sam spun once, taking in the huge lot while Tucker berated himself. "What about the other gates?" she asked, pointing out into the fog.

Tucker nodded. They took off running down the side of the fence. Each gate that popped up had a lock on it, each heavier and more damning than the next.

"We could try to climb over. Or we can just stay here the night," Sam reasoned. "They'll have to open it up in the morning." She stopped herself. "Maybe Danny knows how to get out, since he got in. Or Max could open the gate."

"You don't get it do you?" Tucker nearly shouted. He spun around and grabbed her by the shoulders, giving her a shake. "They're both—" He cut off, choked, staring at something behind her back.

Sam spun around and saw Danny standing five feet from them, holding out the pair of bolt cutters.

"You dropped these," he said, walking up to Tucker until they were inches apart. Sam noted what it was, exactly, that she was seeing in his gaze whenever he looked at Tucker: animosity. It was the same green-glowy glare he had levelled her with when she had made him put out his cigarette. Tucker shrank underneath it.

The boy held out the bolt cutters. When Tucker made no move to take them, he dropped them onto the ground, spun, and stalked off into the night. He took the scent of smoke with him.

Sam bent over and grabbed them up off the dirt. She clipped the lock and shoved the gate open. It squealed, hinges rusted.

Tucker took off down the path, kicking up dirt and rocks as he sprinted away from the junkyard. "Sam!" he called out behind him, "Come on!"

Sam hesitated. Her hands clenched and she looked back into the junkyard. The yard was still and peaceful. She didn't get why Tucker was so freaked out. With a scowl she realized that Tucker had completely abandoned her in his cowardice. She stood at the gate, alone. With a sigh she held up her bolt cutters in the moonlight, wondering how they had managed to escape her backpack without her noticing. They were heavy.

She shoved them back into her bag and spun around, leaving the gate deliberately open so she'd be able to hear if someone tried to close it behind her.

As she wound her way through the yard she squinted into the thick fog.

"I know you're still here," she called.

Nothing.

"I've got questions," she continued.

"Of course you do."

She paused and glanced around, looking for the source of the voice, finding him sitting atop the hood of a Corvette, cigarette in one hand, blue eyes gleaming through the dark. The Corvette's paint was peeling, the chassis riddled with holes where weather ate through metal. Sam knew that it used to be a valuable car, before all the parts had eroded. Now it was useless, even to a collector. She walked closer until she could see him clearer.

He crossed his arms and tilted his head. "Why didn't you leave?"

"How'd you know about the dog?" Sam shot back.

The boy stared at her in shock. He uncrossed his arms. "How come you like sneaking in places you're not supposed to be?" he countered, defensively.

"I have to find the truth. And _you're_ avoiding the question." She glared up at him.

"News travels fast in this town. I heard about the dog from a friend. Everyone thinks you're a kook." He considered her for a moment, dumb grin on his face. " _Are_ you a kook?"

Sam knew he was trying to bait her, but she couldn't help but get irritated. She gritted her teeth. "You saw the dog too," she assumed. "That's how you knew about it. You were there."

He shrugged and took a drag. "I'll never tell." His eyes twinkled in mirth.

She tried to be frustrated, but was too busy liking the brat. "I'm not nuts," she stated. She planted her hands atop her hips.

He threw his head back and laughed delightedly. Smoke billowed from his lips and melded into the surrounded fog. His laugh had a scratchy quality, like a worn out vinyl record, skipping over and over and over and over… "I know you're not," he sobered. That sweet smile settled back across his lips. "I was just teasing you 'cause you're quick to anger."

Sam opened her mouth angrily and then stopped, closed it, and let out a slow breath. She realized he was right. She _was_ quick to anger. Oftentimes she found herself mad for no reason. Ever since... Unsettled, she frowned instead.

"But brave," he continued, thoughtfully. He jumped off of the hood and trotted around the car until he was standing close to her. He reminded her of a coyote trailing alongside its prey, watching out of the side of its eye, constantly nipping, teasing. As he drew near he dropped the cigarette and stomped on it. "Not like your friend. He's kind of a spaz."

Sam fought a shiver at his closeness. The smell of smoke and cologne clung to him. It was a scent she used to abhor, but was now growing fond of. Her eyes locked to his. "Tucker thinks this place is haunted," Sam confided. She was painfully aware of how close he was. His breath hung in the air, pearlescent, multi-colored.

"Do _you_ believe in ghosts?" he asked quietly. And for once, he sounded serious.

Truthfully, ever since seeing Amanda's car she wasn't so sure anymore. Not that she'd admit it. " _No._ This whole town is overly superstitious. Anyway, why are you here? Don't you have to work?" Sam asked. She took a step backwards and breathed easier.

"Got the night off," he smiled. He looked over at the Corvette and tapped the hood. "Was scrounging for parts."

"You own a Corvette?" Sam asked, skeptical.

"Well…" He blushed and looked down shyly. "This one's mine. But don't tell Max that. I've been guarding it, been trying to find parts to fix it up, but these parts are almost impossible to come by anymore."

Sam stared at the car and didn't have the heart to tell him that it was beyond repair. Each part rotten, each piece inoperative. But, instead she nodded and said, "It will be beautiful."

He was staring at her again. A vacant— yet intense— stare. He leaned back against the hood of the Corvette. Sam noted how it barely dipped and wondered just how heavy he was, if at all. "About what your friend said before… This place _is_ haunted."

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. "What do you mean?"

He pointed out towards the treeline in the distance. "This site used be a giant empty field, used for the state fair. A traveling circus set up here. It burned down, tent collapsed and trapped over a dozen people. They burned alive. All the animals, too. The ghosts haunt those woods."

"When?" Sam breathed.

He squinted his eyes as if thinking, hard. "1964? 1954?" He shook his head. "Hmm… Can't remember."

She felt her stomach drop. "That wasn't in any of our research." Tucker and her had been searching for anything, but most of the news reports about Amity Park from the 50's was full of mundane happenings and car show advertisem—

"What research?"

She blinked and looked over at him.

He was peering at her, eyes glinting a green that made her uneasy.

"Tucker and I have a project for school. Amity Park in the 1950's," she rambled, not sure why she felt the need to explain herself. "You could help," she continued. The kid seemed to know a lot about this town. More than most.

"No."

"Why not?" she argued, indignant.

A siren erupted in the distance. Red and blue lights bounced around the yard, reflecting off of bits of broken glass, scattering into a psychedelic kaleidoscope of color. Sam wrenched her head around and saw a police car flying down the dirt path. It skidded to a stop in front of the open gate and a cop got out, casting a heavy beam from a flashlight their way. Sam squinted as it shined directly in her eyes.

She looked back, half expecting the boy leave— he seemed the type to disappear when you least expected— but he was still there. He had taken a few steps back to duck behind the shadow of the Corvette. Sam briefly wondered why he felt the need to hide from police.

"Samantha?" the cop called out. He was striding through the gate, across the yard. "Samantha Manson?"

"Later, Boots." the gravekeeper said. His face faded into darkness until only his smiling teeth remained.

"We're not done talking," Sam promised. She had too many questions; she suspected he held too many answers.

That grin widened. _"Duh."_


	6. Shout

.

〰〰〰

 **06**

Shout

〰〰〰

Sam watched houses flick by in rapid succession. She slunk deeper into the leather seat of the police car and crossed her arms. At least the sirens and lights were off.

As she peered out the window her mind wandered between what happened at the junkyard, Max, the undented car of Amanda Scully, and the possibility that she had been wrong about ghosts.

Officer Gray cleared his throat.

Sam glanced up and saw him peering at her in the rear view mirror, through the metal grate that separated the police officer from the back of the car. She couldn't help but feel like some sort of felon back here, even though he was just giving her a ride home.

"Who were you talking to?" he asked. "Back at the junkyard?"

"A friend," Sam sighed, resting her forehead against the cool window. She was surprised to have admitted it out loud. A friend. She— Samantha Manson— considered someone a friend.

"That place is dangerous, especially at night," Gray continued.

 _Yeah yeah yeah._ Sam resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She sighed loudly and oozed down the seat, heels out, butt on the edge, until her seatbelt reined her in. "Tucker called you and told you to get me, didn't he?"

"Good kid, Tucker. Known him since he was a baby."

So Tucker hadn't completely abandoned her. A little bit of her anger at him bled out. Sam breathed onto the window and drew a tiny skull in the condensation. It winked out at her for only a few seconds before it faded into nothing but the faint imprint of oil left behind from her finger. "How's your daughter?" she asked, suddenly.

She didn't know for sure that Officer Gray was Valerie Gray's father, but the sharp gasp told her she was right.

"You've seen Val?" he asked. His eyes trained back to the road in front of him.

"At school. I see her around from time to time. Seems sad. Lonely." Sam realized she could have been describing herself.

"She never used to be— Left or right? Where did you say you lived?"

"Left," Sam supplied. "And I didn't."

Gray's hands clenched on his steering wheel and he looked back into the rear view mirror. He seemed to guess where she was taking him and he didn't like it. Sam wondered what it was about her house that had everyone so on edge. Ever since her conversation with Danny she had kept her address under wraps.

"You live in that house," Gray stated, voice strange. He turned right.

Sam's hands clenched at her seat belt. She stared at the back of the officer's head, internally debating whether or not to say something. After a moment of indecision, she said lightly, "You missed that turn."

"I know."

"Where are you taking me? I have a cellphone. I can—" she trailed off. She could what? Call the cops?

"I'm taking you to the station," he grunted. "Trespassing illegally is enough to hold you overnight. Or, at least until your parents come get you."

Sam leaned back into the seat, hard. "What? You're arresting me? But I didn't do anything!" she exploded.

"Trust me. This is for your own good."

"With all due respect, _sir_ , you have no idea what's good for me," Sam scathed.

"I know more than you think," Gray laughed humorlessly. He refused to look back at her as he drove further and further down an unfamiliar road.

Sam punched the back of the cage. It hurt. Blood welled up and dotted her knuckles. She didn't _want_ advice. She… She didn't know what she wanted, but this wasn't it.

.

.

Officer Gray had been kind enough to let Sam sit in the lobby of the police station instead of in a cell. They both knew he wasn't going to really arrest her or book her or whatever.

Like a wounded cat, Sam curled up on one of the uncomfortable plastic waiting chairs, huddled her biker jacket around her, and shot mutinous glares at the back of Gray's head where he was ignoring her at his desk.

The door to the station whipped open and her mother strode in and spotted her. "Get up. Get your things."

Sam climbed slowly out of the chair. As soon she got to her feet and slung her backpack through her arms, her mother grabbed her by the elbow. Her fingernails dug through her coat and into her skin.

Pamela leveled her with a stern glare.

Sam flinched. She knew she was in a world of trouble when they got home. Her mother had too much tact to lose it in front of anyone else, but she looked about two seconds away from self implosion.

"Officer Gray," Pamela addressed. She turned to the ma. "Thank you so much for keeping an eye on my daughter. I honestly have no idea what's gotten into her. I promise it won't happen again."

"Just doing my job," Gray stated. He got up from his desk and wound around the station to the door, holding it open for the pair of them. They were halfway through it when he cleared his throat. "Hey, just so you know. Some really strange things have happened in that house of yours. You might want to think about moving."

Pamela's grip on Sam's arm tightened. "Excuse me? What kind of strange things?"

Officer Gray looked extremely uncomfortable. Sam wondered what it was he had against the house. Whatever it was, it was personal. Intimate. Gray's face paled and his eyes glazed over. "Unexplainable things, ma'am. Please, for your own safety, and for your daughter's safety, move."

Her mother stared at him for a long moment as if trying to ascertain if Gray was a lunatic or not. She cracked a careful smile. One of her activist, sweet, empty smiles. "My husband and I will discuss it. Thank you for your concern."

Gray opened his mouth to say something more, but her mother whisked Sam out the door into the cold empty parking lot.

"Unbelievable," her mother ranted underneath her breath. Her heels _click-click-clicked_ across the pavement. She dragged Sam along forcibly. Sam stumbled trying to keep up. "Absolutely _unbelievable_. Unacceptable behavior for a respectable young woman. What if someone saw you, at a police station, or in the back of the cop car? What would people _say?"_

"Who cares?" Sam grumbled.

Her mother stopped suddenly. Her hands grasped Sam's shoulders and she yanked her, hard, to face her. She gave her a rough shake. "What is _wrong_ with you?!" she screamed breathlessly.

Sam almost whacked her mother's hands off, but something in Pamela's tone made her wary. She knew she had pushed her mom too far this time. Instead, she ducked her head and glared down at her boots. "Sorry," she muttered.

Her mother froze as if trying to figure her out, before she shook her head and continued, alone, to her car. It was the only one, parked directly underneath a street lamp. Pamela slammed the driver's side door shut with a loud echoing boom that seemed to continue on endlessly through the empty lot. The engine started with a roar.

Would her mother would leave her out here? Sam wasn't so sure anymore, so she picked up her pace and trotted over to the passenger door, slipped inside, shut it, and put on her seatbelt without a word.

The drive home was silent.

.

.

She peered at her naked body in the mirror.

Her hand ran along her chest bone across smooth pale skin. At her right armpit she felt a bump and, as she inspected closer, she discovered an enormous scar that traveled from underneath her right breast, around her side, and gruesomely down her lower back. Or was it her left side? Seeing as she was looking in a mirror and all, and when one looked in mirrors they saw things reflected…

Two brilliant white lights appeared before her. They grew in intensity, as if approaching fast. The mirror exploded. Her jaw fell open in surprise and she got a mouthful of glass.

A horn assaulted her ears as she tumbled, smashing into things— steering wheels, car roofs, limbs, luggage, loose change— and fell through darkness. A hand reached out of the black. She lurched to grab it, but she was too clumsy. She missed. As she fell further and further she noted dismally to herself, aloud, that, "There's no way back up."

The longer she fell the less she smashed into things. Objects were falling in tandem, only, they flew upwards as she spiralled downwards. She caught sight of a shovel, a broken watch, a lock of blonde hair, and a set of dentures locked in a permanent grin. She winced as a toy rocket hit her square in the jaw.

She hoped she would hit the bottom soon and just get it over with. Death was better than this endless falling, this endless dread of what would hit her next.

Just as she started plotting how to off herself, Sam woke up.

She took in a few gulps of air and stilled in her bed. At first she was certain the dream had awoken her, but a split second later a wail, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass, erupted from down the hall. Her mother's.

Sam flung her covers back and raced to her parent's room.

Her mother was still in bed pointing— hair half out of her curlers— at her shattered mirror.

"What happened?" Sam asked.

"There!" her mother cried. "She was right there."

"Shh, sweetie. It was just a shadow," her father coaxed. He looked over Pamela's shoulder at Sam and gave her a look.

Sam frowned and picked her way around the broken glass until she reached the mirror. Her pale reflection watched her in what little pieces remained. A lamp lay, dented, on the floor where Pamela threw it. The shade was torn.

"It was _not_ a shadow, Jeremy," her mother snapped as she wrestled her way out of his grip. "There was a young woman staring at me. She was standing right there."

"It was just a dream. People have waking nightmares. You used to have them yourself in college, remember?"

"I— Maybe, but... She was so real..."

Sam ignored them. A faint draft caught her bangs and she looked at the huge double windows that overlooked the front lawn. Outside the street was empty. The window was open. She shivered and walked over to it, grabbed ahold of the frame, and yanked it shut with a _bang_.

Her parents jumped.

"Did you guys open this window?" Sam asked.

Her father's gaze darkened. "Sam, you and your mother stay here. I'm going to go make sure everything is safe." He left the pair of them and descended down the stairs.

Sam stood, at a loss. She didn't know what to say to reassure her mom. Pamela's hair was sticking out on one side. Her hands clenched together in her lap, wringing helplessly. "Did she have long black hair?" Sam asked. She wasn't sure why she asked. It was doubtful that her mother and her dreams were the same, but it seemed too coincidental.

Her mother nodded.

"She say anything?"

"No… No… how did you know she had black hair?" Her mother got up from the bed and wrapped her silk robe further around her body. The room was still chilled from that open window. Outside, muffled, dogs barked.

"Lucky guess," Sam murmured. She bent to start picking up the pieces of mirror.

"Leave those. You'll cut yourself."

She ignored her mother, grabbed a piece of dirty laundry to wrap her hand, and started gathering the sharp bits. As she collected, she saw a shape move within all dozen of the glass shards. An outline of a person standing in the doorway holding what looked like a knife. Sam froze.

"Jeremy?" her mother asked. "Everything okay?"

Sam sat back on her heels and turned.

Her father peered at them from the doorway, kitchen knife in hand. Sam recognized it as the one he had been sharpening before. He furrowed his brow.

"Honey?" Pamela prompted.

He shook his head. "Yeah, no. Didn't see anything."

"Well, that's good." Her mother smiled.

"Strange... The window being open," he continued. He hesitated in the doorway for a moment before he shrugged. "Guess one of us opened it and forgot about it."

.

.

"You know, I'm starting to think that Lancer gave us this assignment just to mess with us," Tucker grumbled. He pointed his pencil at her, before shaking his head and looking back down at the stacks of newspapers.

Sam and Tucker were back in the library, this time without Mikey. It was Friday night. It wasn't like Sam had anywhere better to be, but this wasn't her ideal way to start her weekend.

Sam scowled. No matter how deep they dug into the archives, all history of Amity Park in the 1950's was gone. Even when they had discovered a box full of newspapers from that era, all contents were dull and uninspiring. She was beginning to agree with Tucker. She wasn't about to tell him that, though. She was still seething at the fact that he had sent a cop to go get her from the junkyard. Thanks to her brief stint in jail, her mother and her were on shaky ground. The only way she had avoided a grounding was by agreeing to go see Penelope Spectra every Monday for an hour. And Sam knew her mother would call and make sure she not only attended, but _cooperated._ Joy.

"Hey, about earlier this week… Sorry I kind of ran." Tucker said nervously.

Sam glanced up at him. " _Kind_ of?"

"Ok. I ran," Tucker admitted. "But, you should have followed. It wasn't safe there. I thought you were right behind me. Why didn't you run?"

"Because, unlike you, I don't believe in voodoo," Sam sniffed.

Tucker fell silent.

Sam chanced a peek up from her papers and found him staring at her in disappointment. He was peering over the top of his glasses. "What?" she asked.

"Even after seeing the car… even after all that happened… you don't believe in ghosts?" Tucker asked incredulously.

"I— Well— Of course not," Sam struggled. She wasn't entirely sure anymore. She thought about Scully's undented fender and blood-free tires. Sam shifted in her seat uncomfortably. She didn't like thinking about it too hard.

"How do you explain the car?" Tucker asked.

Sam bit her lip. She turned to the next page of the newspaper. July 30th, 1964. "There has to be some logical explanation. Maybe the dog didn't dent the car like I thought it did. Maybe—"

"Sam," Tucker interrupted. "The news reported no dog at the crime scene. No body. Nothing."

Sam sucked in a quick breath.

"I believe you, though," Tucker continued hurriedly, "You and Amanda Scully saw a dog. A _ghost_ dog."

Sam let out the breath and deflated a little. "Ok, fine. The dog _could_ have been a ghost. Happy?" She wasn't completely convinced, but at least that meant she wasn't crazy. That she wasn't seeing things.

"It's a start." Tucker went back to his newspaper. June 15th, 1954. Together they were combing for any news reports of a circus disaster. He turned a page in the paper and sighed. "It feels like someone already went through these boxes and got rid of anything interesting. If I read one more advertisement for a microwave, I swear…"

Sam hummed in agreement as she scanned her newspaper, her eyes glossing over the ads a story about some lady whose Golden Retriever got first place in the Ohio State Fair.

"How'd you find out about this circus thing anyway?" Tucker asked.

"Danny told me."

Tucker stiffened. "How do you know him?" he asked.

Sam paused. She frowned and looked up at him. "He lives down my street. What was your problem, anyway? He helped us and you were a total jerk to him."

"He wasn't helping, Sam," Tucker said lowly.

Sam shook her head and continued to scan the newspaper. "How was he not helping? He made that Max guy back off. He found the bolt cutters. He told me about the circus…"

"Why doesn't he go to our school?" Tucker asked.

"Homeschooled."

"How did he know about something that happened sixty years ago?"

Sam shrugged. "He probably grew up here. Maybe he heard about it around town."

"Ok." Tucker leaned back in his chair. "So... what's his last name?"

Sam bristled at the interrogation. Despite only knowing Danny for a month she felt attached to him. For the past few weeks she had gone to the graveyard for his company. She considered him a friend, and she was nothing if not loyal to her friends. "I've only known him for a few weeks. Sorry if I haven't asked for his biography. I get it. You don't like him." She fluffed her newspaper up so it covered her view of Tucker's face.

"I think he's dead."

"Holy shit, Tucker," Sam exploded in exasperation. "He picked up the bolt cutters. He was _solid._ Not to mention he has a job. I doubt they employ people that are registered as deceased."

"I mean… Ghosts can—"

Sam gasped. Her eyes went cross-eyed as she spotted exactly what they had been looking for. Right there, page A3, a report of a circus disaster. "There!" she announced, slamming the paper onto the table. She pointed. "It's right there!"

Tucker frowned and leaned forward in his seat. "11 Die In Freak Circus Accident," he read aloud. He paused. "You'd think this would have made the front page."

"You're right," Sam said. "This should've been the top story."

Tucker grabbed the paper from her and began reading.

 _"Eleven bodies have been found after a massive fire burned a traveling circus to the ground late Saturday night. Identification is still underway. Paul Garrett, spokesman for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, told_ The Amity Daily _newspaper that the fire was accidental. According to authorities, an electrical problem was the source of the July 29th inferno._

 _"'The collective heart of Amity breaks for the victims of this senseless tragedy,' said Mayor Masters on Monday, after visiting the survivors at North Mercy Hospital—"_

"Mayor Masters?" Sam interrupted, scribbling the name down on a sheet of notebook paper. She underlined the name three times.

* * *

—Diary Entry, II—

Sunday April 12th, 1955

Dear Diary,

Tommy at school asked me to be his girl! He is very cute. He asked me to the hop. He has blond hair and brown eyes.

.

Wednesday April 15th, 1955

Dear Diary,

Tommy broke up with me. He asked Peggy to the hop instead. I cried all night. Now I have no one to go with and it's tomorrow night. Danny got in a fight with him and is in trouble. He said I could go to the hop with him but he's my brother. I can't go with him. It's against the rules. Besides, he's grounded now.

.

Thursday April 16th, 1955

Dear Diary,

Dad brought home the new record. We all danced around the living room to it. I got to wear my skirt after all.


	7. Round & Round

.

〰〰〰

 **07**

Round & Round

〰〰〰

"I'm _so_ glad you agreed to see me."

"Don't get the wrong idea. These meetings weren't _my_ choice," Sam mumbled. "It was either visit a shrink every Monday during lunch, or be under house arrest for the next month."

Sam shifted in the plastic school chair. She gazed around Spectra's office. Lots of motivational photos of different landscapes decorated the walls. She crossed her legs and tapped her foot, glancing around at the plethora of wilting plant life. Over a dozen plants in various stages of decomposition lay browning in clay pots. It looked as if, whenever a plant died, this woman went out and bought a new one, yet never threw the others out, and never took the time to water them. It was sad. Some kind of plant torture.

Penelope Spectra straightened her cat-eye glasses and leaned forward on her desk. Her two-piece suit strained. "Of course it was your choice, dear. You, afterall, forced this ultimatum upon yourself by breaking your parent's rules, did you not?"

Sam instantly bristled before she remembered she didn't care. Besides. What kind of therapist said something like that? "That's one way to think about it," she said noncommittally.

Silence.

"How are you liking Amity Park?" Spectra asked.

Sam glared, but didn't answer.

Spectra sighed and leaned back in her chair. She yanked open a file cabinet and pulled out an inch thick manila folder. With a sharp _snnnap_ she flung it onto her desk, flipped it open, licked her thumb, and began to page through it.

Sam remained silent. The longer Spectra paged through, the more agitated she became. Once again, she tried to remind herself she didn't care. Punk. Unaffected. Cold indifference. She ran her hands down her skirt to iron out the wrinkles and picked a bit at the dirt underneath her nails, if anything to think about something other than Spectra. The past few nights she had snuck out to the cemetery, spending time amongst the dirt and the dead, chatting with her new friend, reading up on Dracula… although with Danny constantly bothering her she'd never finish the damn thing.

"Sorry... It's just that your file is rather extensive." Spectra shut the folder and took her glasses off. "I've read about your expulsion and your simple assault charge."

"I was never charged," Sam corrected.

"I was hoping that I could hear what happened from you," Spectra countered.

Sam crossed her arms. "Doesn't it say everything in that file?" she asked, defensively. She hated the idea that all her misdeeds were on twenty-ish pieces of paper, stuffed in a ugly manila envelope, and shoved in this woman's desk. She started to plot how to steal it. It'd look pretty on fire...

Spectra sighed. "Sam, all of us get angry and that's okay. It's part of being human. I want to better understand you so that we can work on managing some of your anger and turning it into energy more suited for _productive_ things!" Her voice took on a peppy cheer.

Sam wrinkled her nose, repulsed.

"So? Help me out here. I want to get to know you. Let's start over from the beginning," Spectra said with a nauseating smile. "What happened? Why did you hurt that girl?"

Sam frowned and looked down. The last thing she wanted to do was tell this woman about the fight, but she knew that her mother would— no doubt— check in to see if she had cooperated. Sensing a grounding on the horizon, Sam would rather give in a little here in exchange for her freedom. _It's not really giving in,_ Sam thought. At least, that's what she told herself. She cleared her throat and glared down at the linoleum. "There was a girl at my old school. Joy Nguyen. Super popular. Pretty. Star of the softball team. Her group of friends used to say things to me all the time."

 _—_ _The smell of freshly cut grass filled her nose. A petite Vietnamese girl smirked at her, oval face, large brown doe eyes, full lips, small flat nose, hair shiny, straight, and sleek down to her mid back even when pulled up in a high ponytail. A bat rested atop her shoulder, hand perched on her hip. 'What are you doing here, Manson? I thought you hated softball.'—_

"What kind of things?"

Sam shot Spectra a glare. Wasn't it obvious? "Stuff like freak, devil-worshipper, dyke, witch… Anyway, whatever. Doesn't matter anymore." As the words left her mouth she felt gloom weigh her down. _They were just words,_ she reminded herself. _They didn't mean anything._ Her tormentors at her last school hadn't even had the decency to be creative with their insults.

Spectra stared at her for a long moment.

Sam gritted her teeth. "What?" she mumbled. "It's not like I go to that school anymore."

"Do you want to go to that school?"

 _"No,_ " Sam snapped. Her neck tinged and she reached up to rub at it a few times. Her fingertips trailed along her collarbone where a scar, still pink from healing, cut through her skin. "That school was shitty anyways. Besides—" Sam caught herself and paused.

Spectra waited for a long moment for Sam to finish her train of thought, but, after realizing she wasn't about to continue, she glanced back down at the manila folder and marked a few things. "It says here that you and Ms. Nguyen—"

"People change, you know," Sam interrupted. " _I've_ changed, since then."

She wasn't lying. She just didn't know if she had changed for the better.

.

.

Later, after the bell rang for the end of the school day, Sam tapped her pencil against her history book as she watched as students ambled slowly out of the classroom until all but a few remained. A group of four stayed behind, too busy chattering on about their Halloween costumes to go home.

Sam slid out from around her desk and tucked her book underneath her arm. She flung her spider backpack over one shoulder and walked up to the front desk.

Mr. Lancer paused from where he was looking at a stack of ungraded papers. "Yes, Miss Manson?"

"I—uh…" Sam cleared her throat. "I wanted to talk to you about the final project."

Lancer placed the paper down deliberately onto the desk and gave her his full attention. "Okay. What about it?"

Sam grimaced. Internally her stomach squirmed at admitting defeat or asking for help, but… "We've been looking for weeks on information and got nothing. Well, _almost_ nothing..." She looked down at her hands. "I was wondering if you had any advice on where to look, besides the archives."

"What have you found so far?" he asked.

Sam swallowed. "Well, we found out about a circus that burned down. And about a parade that used to be a yearly town celebration, but got cancelled and never got picked back up. That the town used to be called Amity, but got renamed Amity Park in 1966. We also found out the mayor back then was a man named Mr. Masters, but he only served one term."

Lancer leaned back in his chair. "A circus accident? Interesting. I didn't know about that." His mutterings grew too soft for Sam to make out.

"Wait," Sam interrupted. She made a face. "Aren't you supposed to already know all this stuff? You're the teacher."

Lancer gave her a bemused smile and shrugged. "You two are the first to get the fifties for the final project. I usually skip over it. Students have trouble finding enough information to write a halfway decent report."

Sam felt a hot wave of indignation run through her. "So you gave us the hardest prompt?"

"Yes," he admitted. "You looked like someone who doesn't get easily discouraged. Already you've found out more than anyone else who got your prompt." He tapped his fingers along his desk before pointing at her. "Seems I was right about you."

"Well, there _isn't_ enough information. You've set us up to fail." Sam scowled.

Lancer sighed. Sam felt like he was disappointed in her. "You have almost the whole semester until you have to give your presentation. Of course, if you and your partners feel your topic is too difficult we can arrange an alternate prompt. Perhaps the 90's would be more suitable." He picked up the paper he had been grading and got back to it.

Sam knew she was dismissed. Defeat started to coil. She also knew that if Tucker were by her side he would leap on this opportunity to make the final easier. Mikey... she didn't know him well enough to know if he'd be up for a challenge. Although he seemed like the type to like solving difficult puzzles. They were alike in that regard. She felt as if she had something to prove. Lancer believed in her. Afterall, he wouldn't have given the prompt to her if he thought she would fail. Sam gritted her teeth, pride winning out. "Fine. I'll keep looking," she told him. "I won't give up."

Lancer peered back up at her and offered her a grin. He had goaded her. Of course. "Good," he said. "But if it gets to be too difficult the offer still stands."

Sam nodded, said goodnight, and left feeling childish— yet determined. Some part of her wanted to prove Lancer right. He seemed like a nice enough teacher, as far as teachers went.

Lost in thought, she walked down the empty hallway and caught a familiar mess of hair out of the corner of her eye. Sam paused. That girl— Valerie Gray— was standing outside in the high school parking lot, alone.

What was it about Valerie Gray that had everyone walking on eggshells? Why was the girl so sad and was there anything Sam could do to help? She didn't know why she cared, but she did. Maybe it was the way that Valerie seemed to ghost from class to class, hardly speaking, avoiding all human contact… it reminded Sam of herself not so long ago. Perhaps she was just drawn to the people most desperate to keep her away. Either way she found herself walking with purpose through the huge double doors.

"Hey," Sam greeted.

Valerie spun, bewildered look on her face, before she saw Sam approaching. She paled.

Sam frowned. _What the?_

Valerie turned and started walking at a brisk trot away from her. Her backpack bounced across her back as she fast-walked down the sidewalk.

Sam stumbled for a moment. Had she not heard her? But she had _looked right at her_. "Wait up!" Sam called, "I just want to talk." She picked up her pace until her combat boots were clunking full force against the pavement.

They must look ridiculous, Sam thought to herself. This _was_ ridiculous. Just when she thought she had closed the gap, Valerie took off in a dead sprint. The girl was _fast._

Sam stopped. Her lips settled into a determined line. A wave of annoyance battered through her. _Fine._ Now they were _really_ gonna talk. She remembered her bike and ran around the side of the school to where it was locked up. Well aware that Valerie was quickly escaping, Sam fumbled with the key to the bike lock. After the third attempt she got the bike free, threw the lock into her backpack, yanked the bike out of the rack, jumped atop, and peeled off down the street. She didn't even know why she was chasing this girl down. She didn't stop to think maybe she should leave someone alone that clearly wanted nothing to do with her.

After two blocks of pedaling at a dead sprint, Sam caught sight of Valerie's orange dress. The other girl glanced over her shoulder, saw Sam, and spun around, digging her heels into the dirt as if to brace herself. "Leave me alone," Valerie warned as Sam got closer. "Stay away."

Sam panted as she came up within five feet.

Valerie's hair was unkempt, her dress wrinkled. She looked as if she hadn't had a good night sleep in months. Sam got the impression that Valerie used to care a great deal about her personal appearance, until something had happened. Now she cared about other things more, or nothing at all.

"Why'd you run?" Sam asked, breathless. "I just wanted to—"

A fist sailed at Sam's face.

On instinct alone, Sam ducked her head to the left just in time. Valerie's punch landed against Sam's right shoulder, knocking the wind from her lungs and her hand off of her handlebars, dislodging her from the seat of her bike. She crashed onto the ground, her foot getting tangled in the peddles, bringing the bike down on top of her. Gravel ripped through her jeans and chewed into her knee.

Sam spent two seconds being stunned before she moved onto more useful emotions. Like anger. And outrage. "Ok. Now I'm _really_ pissed," she grated. She shoved the bike off of her violently, not caring as it clattered loudly against the pavement. The fury rushing through her dulled the pain in her throbbing shoulder and her stinging knee. She leapt up off the ground and glared.

"I _said_ to stay away from me," Valerie growled.

"No shit," Sam spat. She raised her hands up near her face in fists in case Valerie tried that move again, but she felt hilariously scrawny by comparison. "What the hell is your problem?"

"You! _You're_ my problem!" Her voice hitched. "You're _everyone's problem!"_

Sam blinked, hurt. She lowered her hands and took a shocked step back. "What? Why? What did I— Why?" Sam stuttered. "You don't even know me."

Valerie's face crumpled and twisted into something awful. "I know you," she said, voice hysteric.

Sam bit her lip and hovered uncertainly. This was second time someone had told her that, but for some reason it sounded way more ominous coming from this girl than it did from Danny. Valerie was nuts. Maybe that's why everyone at school walked around her like she was surrounded by a fifteen foot bubble.

"Look," Sam soothed. "I think we started off on the wrong foot." _Understatement of the year._ "I'm new here. I just wanted to introduce myself. I've seen you in a few classes. We even have homeroom together. I thought—"

Valerie ripped her hands away from her face. Her eyes were full of tears. "You thought _what?_ That you could move into that house and nothing would happen?! Now they're back! And it's all happening again!"

"What's happening again? Who's back?" Sam asked. She started to get the sinking feeling that she had triggered some kind of nervous breakdown. Her hand dipped into her jeans pocket and she felt around for her cellphone in case she needed to call a doctor, or the police, but her pocket was empty. Her phone was in her backpack, which was strewn on the ground behind her.

Valerie's eyes were wide in panic. " _They're_ back."

Okay… Sam stopped trying to dig for information. It was clear that Valerie was only getting more and more upset. "Breathe," Sam tried to soothe. "No one is—"

"It fancies you! It follows you around!" Valerie continued. "You have to stay away. I can't let it find me again."

Sam put her palms up in front of her and backed off. "What are you—"

"Stay away from me," Valerie repeated. "I mean it."

"Or what?" As soon as Sam said it, she knew it was a mistake.

"Or I'll kill you myself," Valerie growled darkly.

Sam wasn't about to test Valerie's conviction. For some reason this girl struck her as the type that kept her promises. She also had a serious right hook. This girl was dangerous.

By the time Sam got over her shock, Valerie had already run away, through the bushes and into the thicket of forest to the right of the road. Her bright orange dress disappeared in the perpetual mist.

Sam breathed out slowly. Her breath condensed in front of her face. All around her the street was eerily silent. From above the grey sky split and a small drizzle coated the ground, dying the pavement black.

What the _hell_ had that been all about? Sam remembered the look in Officer Gray's eyes when he had warned her and her mother about the house. Sam wasn't stupid. Something had gone down there, and the Grays had been involved. A million questions stormed in Sam's mind. Who were 'they'? What, exactly, was happening again? Who was following her around? Why did it matter if Sam was living in the house? More questions. No answers.

Sam shook her head. Maybe the girl was nuts like everyone said she was. Although she couldn't help but feel unsettled.

She walked over to her abandoned bike and reached down for her backpack. As Sam slung it over one shoulder, a piece of paper fluttered out of one of the unzipped pockets. A bright orange flyer.

She paused, before bending down to scoop it up. She unwrinkled one of the corners and tried to dry off the edges where the wet pavement had started to make the ink bleed. Spirit Club. Right. What day was it? Monday afternoon? They didn't meet until tomorrow night.

Sam bit her lip as she stared down at the paper. Tucker would kill her for even considering attending one of those meetings. She doubted that Paulina would know anything about Amity Park's past, but she might know a thing or two about what had happened with the Grays. Paulina loved to gossip, loved have dirt on just about everybody. Maybe she would tell her what Valerie's problem was.

She shoved the flyer back into her backpack and climbed atop her bike. Time to go home. Wherever, and whatever, _home_ amounted to anymore.

The sun dipped beyond the pines, casting her shadow out in front of her as she made her way back. She flicked on her bike light, although she hadn't seen a single car for over five minutes.

A small red sign peeked through the mist on the left of the street as she rode along, declaring, in white letters: _I know._ It looked as if it had been there for ages, but no one had the heart to take it down. As Sam peddled onward, another followed it. Sam quickly realized why it had remained for so long, even though vines and plants had started to try and pull it down. It was a jingle. An old ad. It read:

 _I know  
he's a wolf  
said Riding Hood  
But grandma, dear  
he smells so good!  
Burma-Shave_

"Comforting," Sam muttered to herself as she stared at the last sign, her neck twisting as it flew past. She stopped paying attention to where she was going. It was why she nearly ran straight into a blockade. With a gasp she skidded to a stop, tires a half inch from ramming straight into the metal.

ROAD CLOSED AHEAD, USE DETOUR.

Beyond the sign the road stretched onward, seemingly fine. She glanced around. To her left was a dirt road that wound deep into the woods. A detour sign was propped up against a tree.

She spun her handlebars around to follow the path, before she felt that strange cold feeling. It crept up her spine and into her scalp. She was being followed again. Only, this time, Valerie's warning blared in her head. Apparently she had attracted some kind of stalker.

A gust of wind picked up and she could hear rustling the leaves behind her. It almost sounded like children whispering, giggling, conspiring.

Sam froze and gritted her teeth. The urge to run nearly bowled her over but she stood her ground. Copying Danny, she didn't look back. Instead she gazed between the two signs in indecision.

The dog… the dog hadn't existed. As baffling as that fact was, Sam found she accepted it as truth. She had already been tricked once.

Sam rolled her bike up to the road closure sign. She reached out hesitantly and brushed her hand along it. It felt solid, but cold. Ice cold and too smooth. Almost like what solidified air might feel like. Certainly not like any metal she had ever touched.

Her stalker was watching her intently, awaiting her decision. Sam felt that it— or they— wanted her to follow the detour route. That, if anything, made her choice easy.

She took off full-speed down the street, ignoring the road closure sign. After a few minutes the creepy feeling faded. She shook it off, rolling out her shoulders, as she pedaled. She made it home, never encountering a felled tree, a downed powerline, or any other reason for why the road would be closed.


	8. On This Train to Nowhere

.

〰〰〰

 **08**

On This Train to Nowhere

〰〰〰

Sam didn't tell Tucker that she was attending a Spirit Club meeting. She knew he wouldn't approve. Not that he held any sway over her decisions, but the pair of them always seemed to be on the edge of a fight. No need to cause any unnecessary tension. Tucker was one of the only friends she had. Besides, she needed him to pass US History.

She pedaled her bike towards the old abandoned hospital. It stood upon a hill, looming all grey and ominous. The windows looked half boarded up. Shards of glass glinted like teeth in the dim lighting. It was a square building, with square windows. Very rectangular and boring. Utilitarian. Like it had once served its purpose, but was now pointless.

Sam caught sight of a cluster of people milling about the entrance to the road that led up the hill. A huge metal gate blocked the way but, Sam noted, it could be easily climbed.

There were five of them. As Sam drew close she began to pick them apart— Paulina and Star, Dash and Kwan, and... Mikey. She should have known he'd be tagging along. The kid was hunched in a permanent slouch, head ducked, eyes darting around between the others as if constantly gauging their opinions.

"Look who it is," Dash sneered as Sam hopped off her bike and walked up to the group.

"Baxter," Sam greeted blithely.

Paulina bounded over to her. Her billowing hair fluttered out behind her. She leaned in too close for comfort and grabbed Sam by the arm. "Oh, you came!" she exclaimed. "I knew you would! Didn't I say she would?" Paulina spun around to look back at the group.

They all mumbled affirmatively that yes, of course, Paulina had said she would.

Sam was too busy trying to not look completely uncomfortable with this girl touching her. She extracted her arm gently, hoping that Paulina wouldn't get offended, but the girl didn't even notice. Her eyes had a distant glazed look about them, as if she couldn't really see any further than herself. "I came to see what the hocus pocus was all about," Sam muttered.

"Hocus pocus?" Mikey spoke up. "This isn't some kind of a joke." He turned to look at Star and Paulina for encouragement, but Paulina waved a hand like batting a fly.

"I _don't_ joke," Sam stated flatly.

"Shut it, Mikey," Paulina snapped. "Don't make me regret letting you tag along."

"Yeah, Mikey," Dash warned. He cracked his knuckles.

Mikey looked down at his shoelace.

Star smiled a wide vacant smile. "You're in luck, Samantha. Tonight we're going to the tracks."

"It's Sam—"

"Let's go." Paulina had her by the arm again. Sam didn't wrench it out this time.

"—I thought we were going to the hospital?" Sam asked weakly. She stumbled after them as they abandoned their bikes and took off down the street. She glanced back behind her shoulder and looked up at the old building. Dread curled up in her stomach. What was more haunted than a run down hospital?

"—They say a ghost haunts the shipping boxes down at the train yard," Kwan was saying. He shot her a wavering grin, not looking too excited about it.

Great. Sam shut her mouth. Really, she knew what she had been getting herself into. Although just how many more ghostly encounters she could handle, she didn't know.

After maybe half a mile, the five of them veered off into tall wild grass off the side of the road. As soon as they crested the side of the bluff Sam could see the tracks Star had been referring to. Four parallel railway tracks cut through the landscape. Among them, abandoned train carriages and shipping containers lay littered about.

Sam was about to mention that it might not be a great idea to stand around on train tracks, but the group had already taken off, running at breakspeed down the hill with joyful whoops.

Sam grimaced and followed, running up behind them, until they hit a chainlink fence.

Dash reached around into his backpack and drew out wire clippers. One by one he snapped the chain away. The entire time, Paulina harped at him to go faster. _Hurry it up already, it's nearly sundown. Papa will freak if I'm not home in an hour._

After enough wires had been clipped he yanked back the fence and they all plucked their way inside.

"This one," Paulina whispered, gesturing up at a red shipping container, the door slightly ajar.

Kwan hoisted her up and she yanked the sliding door open a few feet further with a loud squeak.

"You go," she told Dash. "I can't go first, what if there's, like, a murderer? Or worse— a homeless man?"

In the end, Dash threw Mikey up into it. Once it was deemed vacant, one by one they filed inside.

Sam took up the rear. As she stumbled into the container, she caught the fetid scent of mold and mouse droppings. She wrinkled her nose for a second, blind, before a brilliant light lit up the underside of Paulina's face. Sam jumped, despite herself. Paulina was freaky enough without her features harshly lit by a flashlight.

"Boo!" Paulina giggled. She cast the light down around the ground and illuminated different wooden crates, dirt, and rust. "Ew," she commented. "Let's make this quick."

Someone rustled around for a moment, before passing something… red…

"What's that?" Sam asked as she watched Dash dip his fingers the substance and start to spread it around on the floor. From her right a match was struck and Mikey lit a few candles, placing them in the center of what looked like the beginnings of an alchemic circle.

"You would know, Goth girl," Star hummed.

"It's blood," Dash said. He paused menacingly, before tacking on, " _Chicken_ blood."

It took considerable effort, but Sam swallowed her outrage. She wasn't here to debate the ethics of how they obtained that chicken blood. "So how come you guys started doing this?" Sam asked.

"Ghosts are so cool," Paulina sighed. "Have you ever seen a ghost?"

Sam was about to shake her head before she paused, thought about it, and then nodded. "Yeah. I think I have," she said aloud, surprising herself even as she did it.

Paulina's eyes lit up. "Really? What did it look like?"

Star, Kwan, and Mikey paused to glance at her. Even Dash stopped what he was doing for a second and looked at her with genuine interest.

Sam fidgeted uncomfortably underneath the weight of their stares. "I saw a dog, but I don't think the dog actually existed. Maybe I made it all up in my head, but…" She trailed off.

"Oh," Paulina said, looking a bit disappointed.

"Why?" Sam asked. "Have you guys seen a ghost?"

Yes, yes they had. Sam could look across each one of their faces and see a different range of emotions, but, in the flickering candlelight, most of their expressions were serious. Except Dash. By the way his eyes kept getting magnetically attracted to Paulina's cleavage, Sam could deduce that Dash was only here because of the cheerleader. And Kwan was probably here because of Dash.

Mikey shook his head once, lips pursed. "I saw my grandmother I think," he spoke quietly.

"I saw—" Star began.

"I saw a boy," Paulina interrupted. She leaned to one side and peered up into the dark rusty ceiling of the container, batting her long eyelashes dreamily. "I was crossing the road and didn't see a car and he saved me. Out of nowhere."

Star closed her mouth and sat back on her heels, effectively shushed.

"Three years ago we spent a whole night together. Super handsome and old timey. He had the best fashion sense. Nice shoes— those wingtip ones... and hair done like"— Paulina waved her hand to gesture up at her forehead as if combing a part— "He may be a ghost, but that doesn't mean we can't be together. Ever since that night I've been searching for him. That's why I started this club. I know he loves me. He'll come back to me."

"Maybe you don't _want_ him to come back for you," Sam reasoned. So far, all the ghostly encounters she'd experienced involved cunning, manipulation, and bodily harm.

"No, you don't understand. Not him. We're in love." Paulina's eyes sparkled maniacally in the candlelight, her tone turning sharp. "He could _never_ hurt me."

A pause. Dash continued to draw whatever circle he was drawing. The rest of the crew stared at the candles for a long moment.

"Guys…" Kwan spoke up. "What happened last week… with the suicide... do you think… what if it's happening all over again?" He had his back to the door, prepared to leap out of the container at any second, although he tried to lean casually so as to not show any fear. "The ghosts could be back. Maybe this isn't such a good idea anymore. Spirit Club was fun when nothing would happen, but what if we draw attention to—"

"You're not afraid of a couple spooks are you?" Dash cut in, sneering. He smeared blood across his cheeks and leered at Kwan who, despite himself, skittered away. Dash barked a hyena-like laugh. It yipped and jabbed, echoing over and over across the tin compartment.

"What happened last time?" Sam interrupted. She didn't come to this thing for chicken blood and the pleasure of Dash Baxter's company. She came for answers.

Mikey stared at her hard, as if she had asked a dumb question.

"She's new," Star said. "She doesn't know anything."

Sam gritted her teeth.

"Three years ago Amity Park had an epidemic of accidental deaths, missing people, and suicides," Mikey explained clinically. "Eleven people. Some went missing and were never found. People reported strange happenings. Apparitions, hallucinations… ghosts."

Sam frowned. "So… why did they stop?"

Dash went back to work at whatever lopsided blood circle he was working on. The boy was many things, but an artist was not one of them.

Mikey shrugged. "The ghosts started with Valerie Gray, they ended with Valerie Gray."

"It has something to do with their old house," Paulina mused.

"We don't know that for sure," Star cut in, rolling her eyes.

"C'mon, Star," Paulina scowled. "We broke in there last year ourselves and looked around. You _can't_ tell me that place isn't haunted. It's super creepy. Especially that chandelier…" She trailed off, shuddering.

Sam refrained from mentioning the fact that she currently lived in that super creepy mansion. Paulina's hand on her arm broke her out of her thoughts. Sam flinched and immediately took back her arm and pinned it close to her side. She had a strict no-touching rule.

Paulina looked as if she was waiting for Sam to ask her a question, and when she didn't, she couldn't help herself but answer anyway. "Mrs. Gray hung herself from that chandelier," Paulina whispered conspiratorially.

"She did?" Sam asked cooly, but her mind raced. That certainly explained Valerie's father's aversion to the house. Sam pictured that chandelier and all its old-glory, with the body of a woman swaying side to side, toes and fingertips pointed.

"Valerie came home and found her hanging there. Poor thing. I know 'cause we used to be friends." Paulina recited this all with the apathy of someone who had never witnessed the death of a loved one. "She just came back to school this year. My cousin said she was in a mental institution for the past two years. If you ask me, she shouldn't be allowed back. I tried to say hi but she completely ignored me. She's clearly not all there anymore. Pretty fishy the same month she comes back there's a suicide..."

Star twirled her finger next to her head and grinned.

Sam closed her eyes. _Images of broken glass, her own cut up hands, and the sight of a pale face, dead marble-like brown eyes, mouth bloodied and downturned, gaping, red smeared across a temple, down a pale cheek—_ She shook her head and sucked in a quick breath.

She wasn't sure if she completely forgave Valerie for her death threat, but she certainly didn't hold it against her. Instead she found herself empathizing.

"You gonna hurl?" Dash asked her.

The blood smeared across his face made Sam breathless. For a moment she thought she was still lost in that memory, but then she remembered the chicken blood. Right.

"No," Sam muttered. "But if I do, I'll make sure to get some on you."

"What was that?" Dash asked dangerously.

"Nothing."

"Is the circle almost done? It's getting late," Star piped.

"Good enough," Dash grumbled. He gestured down at the crudely drawn circle. "Oh, almost forgot." He got out a huge jar of salt and poured it around the group of them, creating a thick white line.

Sam tried not to laugh. It looked like the lot of them had googled what an ancient rite circle looked like and attempted to imitate it. The candles they used weren't long-lasting and were already dripping wax all over the floor.

"Circle up," Paulina ordered.

They obeyed. Sam begrudgingly took her place in between Mikey and Star and, because she told herself she was here for knowledge, she didn't complain about having to take their hands. Mikey's was slightly sweaty. Sam instantly made a face.

"After this I have to tell you something," Mikey whispered.

Sam glanced over at him. "What?"

"Alright," Paulina announced. "Everybody close your eyes and repeat after me."

 _This is so stupid_. Sam rolled her eyes inside her head, eyelids fluttering.

"Shadowed creatures of the night, I summon you, come to us tonight, _"_ the group chanted.

Sam noted it was only really Paulina, Star, Mikey and Kwan doing the chanting. Sam peeked open one eye and saw Dash looking down Paulina's shirt while she had her eyes closed. _Pig._

"Shadowed creatures of the night, I summon you, come to us tonight."

Star's cold hand tightened around hers. Sam assumed that meant Star knew she wasn't chanting. With a sigh, Sam joined in for the last recitation. "Shadowed creatures of the night, I summon you, come to us tonight," she incited in monotone. She kept her eyes open. Just like she expected, nothing happened.

"Box Ghost, if you are with us, blow out the candle," Paulina whispered.

They all stared at the candles, but other than an odd flicker, none of them blew out.

Paulina didn't seem discouraged however, and none of the others looked very surprised. Sam wondered why she had even come; it wasn't like these people knew anything about ghosts. She doubted their candles _ever_ flickered out.

"Phantom, if you're with us tonight, blow out the candle," Paulina continued. She leaned forward and stared, hard, at the lot of them. After a few seconds one petered and died out. It left nothing but a soft glowing ember behind.

Sam stared at it in shock. Did that _really_ just happen?

Paulina squealed. "He's here!" she exclaimed.

"The candle just ran out of wax," Kwan said quietly.

Sam looked down. Sure enough. The candle had run out of wax. It hadn't been blown out.

"Shut _up_. He's here. The candle wouldn't have gone out otherwise. Phantom, blow out another candle if you came back for _me_."

No breeze. Nothing. The four of them watched as Paulina addressed an empty room, directing questions to a being that didn't exist. Sam wondered if her mystery lover had ever existed in the first place.

By the end Paulina was pouting.

Mikey reached forward and grabbed up the remaining candles, blowing them out, and flicked the flashlight back on.

"Say a ghost _had_ come, what's the salt supposed to do?" Sam asked.

"Protect us," Paulina answered glumly. "Ghosts can't cross salt lines."

"Well maybe that's why he couldn't blow out any of your candles," Sam reasoned.

Paulina stared at her, hard. Her face contorted like she wanted to say something awful back, then it cleared and brightened. "You're right! Of course! That's why he hasn't talked to me! This whole time we've been doing it wrong." She kicked her sneaker down at the line, breaking it apart with her toe.

Mikey and Kwan shot Sam a glare.

She didn't return their gaze, knowing full-well that next time Paulina attempted to summon the dead, she would do so without a salt barrier. Sam wasn't sure just how much ghostly lore she believed in yet, but she believed enough to want a salt barrier.

.

.

Feeling like she had wasted much of her night, Sam broke away from the group to retrieve her bike back at the old hospital. It was still there, to her relief.

She yanked it up by the handlebars and climbed atop. With one last look at the grey building upon the hill, she took off down the street and rode towards town.

At least it hadn't been a _complete_ waste. She now knew what had happened to the Grays. She knew more about Valerie, more about the house she lived in, and all the stories and hysteria surrounding it. Not to mention she found out one little rumor about ghosts that she was going to put to use.

She skidded to a stop outside a convenience store a half block away from the Amity Park Cemetery. With practiced ease she locked her bike up and strode inside.

A little bell chimed. A blast of hot air and pop music pelted her in the face.

She walked down the first aisle, grabbing a bottle of water. When she turned the corner to the second aisle she caught sight of what she was _really_ here for. She cracked a crooked grin, grabbed the jar off of the shelf and— after tucking the water underneath one armpit— spun it around in her hands to bathe it in the brilliant fluorescent lights. Morton Salt.

"Is that all?" the cashier asked her tiredly.

Sam nodded, slamming a ten onto the counter.

Tucker was convinced her gravekeeper friend was dead. Sam disagreed.

There was only one way to settle this.

* * *

—Diary Entry, III—

Friday June 13th, 1957

Dear Diary,

Danny and I are leaving for Amity tomorrow for the whole summer. We go every year, but I think this might be our last. Danny has friends that he wants to hang out with in Cincinnati. Besides, I have to study if I want to go to college. I can't spend a whole summer being a child anymore. It's time to grow up.

.

Friday July 4th, 1957

Dear Diary,

In Amity at Vlad's. It's July 4th. Danny won't stop trying to get me to go catch the fireflies like we used to. He's been shooting off fireworks and launching his toy rockets out in the backyard all day. I'm never going to get any studying done with him around. He won't let me finish a book.

.

Monday September 15th, 1959

Dear Diary,

I haven't written in here for years! I lost it for a while and just found it crammed in my desk drawer. Sorry diary! Life has been so busy. I've been spending all my free time studying. Can never be too prepared.

.

Friday July 14th, 1961

Dear Diary,

I met a boy today at Henrietta's. He's a year older than me and rides a motorcycle. He's interesting and quiet. There's something wonderful about him. I can't tell what he's thinking. And get this— his name is Johnny. Isn't that cute? He let me ride on the back of his bike and took me to Cedar Hill. I want to know more about him.

.

Monday, September 30th, 1961

Dear Diary,

I think Johnny might be the one. He's so sweet. He's not like any of the other boys. Danny and him don't get along, but don't all brothers hate their sister's boyfriends? He'll come around once he understands how serious I am.


	9. Ain't Too Proud to Beg

.

〰〰〰

 **09**

Ain't Too Proud To Beg

〰〰〰

After exiting the convenience store, Sam crossed the street, popped open the top of the salt, sprinkled a tiny line along the iron gate of the cemetery, shoved the rest of the salt back in her back, and began her customary climb of the cemetery fence.

She barely crested the top when a voice from somewhere below her spoke out. "If it isn't my favorite punk. I was wondering when you'd break and enter. _Dracula's_ not going to read itself, you know."

Sam jumped. She was glad she had poured the salt line outside of the gate instead of inside it. She wouldn't have been able to pour it without him knowing if she had waited.

She glanced down.

Danny's head was nearly one foot below her dangling heel. Sam had to squint to see him in the gloom.

She hauled her other leg up and over the top of the fence, careful to avoid catching her already ripped up jeans, and slowly spun around to start her descent into the graveyard. "Oh look— an annoyingly upbeat nerd of a necrophiliac," Sam shot back, out of breath.

"Don't make me blush," he cooed. Sam could tell he was grinning by his tone of voice. Someone was in a good mood tonight.

"Wasn't planning on it," Sam muttered. She took another step, missed, and nearly fell. With a startled squeak she grabbed onto the top rung just in time— dangling precariously. Her feet scrambled as she regained her footing.

"Whoah," he said. "You know, next time you could ask me to open the gate for you. The _last_ thing you need is your own tombstone."

Sam started to climb down with more care. "Isn't opening the gate against the rules?" Sam asked breathlessly.

"About that… I've been thinking... Rules are pretty dumb."

Sam landed with a soft thump against the soil and turned to face him, taking in his sparkling blue eyes and dark green sweater vest atop a collared shirt. This particular outfit made him look out of place, like he was from another time. It struck her as odd. A nagging voice told her he dressed like this because he really _was_ from another time. She squashed it. The salt line had been poured. She'd find out soon enough if he could cross it when he walked her home. He _always_ walked her home. It was that politeness she was counting on.

"'Rules are dumb?'" she repeated. "I'm rubbing off on you."

"Something like that," he admitted, tone conflicted.

Sam paused, trying to decipher what that meant, but before she had the chance he was already walking away from her up the bluff. "Hey. Where are you going?"

"Gotta finish something up," he said over his shoulder.

Sam grabbed her flashlight out of her bag and flicked it on, shining it where he had gone, but he wasn't there. It's not like she expected him to be.

With a huff, she blew some of her bangs off her forehead and headed towards her tree. She settled underneath it and propped her flashlight up so that the gravekeeper would have a harder time sneaking up on her. For some reason he had an unhealthy obsession with trying to scare her. So far, mission: unsuccessful. She shivered, the crisp October night air biting through her vegan leather jacket.

She fished inside her backpack for her book, her hand bumping against the salt container.

As she read, her thoughts began to race. What Valerie said yesterday had stuck with her. The death threat _and_ the stalker bit. And what about that ghost Paulina said she had seen? Phantom. A boy with manners and nice shoes— Sam immediately thought of the gravekeeper. Her eyes paused halfway through a line. What if Paulina's crush _was_ the gravekeeper? What if Danny _was_ Phantom?

Sam blinked and realized she had been reading the same paragraph over and over without comprehension. She refocused and tried to forget about all she had learned tonight. Forget about the chandelier… about the unexplained deaths and suicides three years ago… about the town that kept getting stranger and stranger with each passing day…

A pair of shiny black oxfords trotted up to her left. "You're never going to finish that book with me around."

Sam looked down at _Dracula_ , then back up at the gravekeeper, who crossed the clearing and sat haughtily atop the adjacent gravestone.

"Is that a threat?" she asked.

He steepled his fingers and rested his chin upon them. "Yes."

Sam reopened the book. She ignored him.

"Hey, c'mon," he laughed. "I was kidding."

She turned a page pointedly.

"Bo—ots. Pay attention to _me._ " He drew out her nickname pleadingly.

Sam broke and glanced up at him. He had his hands out before him in prayer, legs crossed at the ankles, lips pouted, those blue eyes watery. He probably didn't know how cute he looked. With a long-suffering sigh she placed the book down. "Alright, fine," she conceded. "Attention whore."

He grinned triumphantly.

"Isn't it kind of rude to sit on someone's gravestone? Don't you have any respect for the dead?" Sam asked.

He blinked. "What?" he asked, glancing down at the rock, oblivious.

Sam rolled her eyes. Sometimes the way he treated death so casually irked her. "I mean, what if you were this person's"— Sam tilted her head to read the tombstone aloud— "What if you were Madeline Fenton's son and you came to give her some flowers and instead find some creepy dude sitting on her grave marker?"

He stared at her blankly. "Hey. Did you just call me _creepy?_ "

 _For the love of—_ "Nevermind," Sam groaned.

"I work in a graveyard," he stated, as if this explained everything.

Sam supposed it did. If she worked around death all the time she'd start being thick-skinned about it too. Recently she had noticed that death was disturbing her less and less. This realization only served to disturb her in different, more profound ways. Ways that got her wondering if she was losing small chunks of her soul with each death she encountered.

Danny leaned forward and put his chin in his hand. "So, what's new in Sam's mad, mad world?"

"I found out a woman hung herself off the chandelier in my house," Sam said bluntly. "I also received a death threat, and used chicken blood to try and summon a ghost. It didn't work."

He leaned back. His face darkened. "Who threatened you?"

Sam opened her mouth, paused, and closed it again. There was a green glint to his eye. She knew she was glimpsing another version of him, like peeling back a curtain. His question was loaded with intent to hurt someone. Valerie had been terrified of attracting any attention to herself. She had only lashed out because Sam had cornered her. The girl had been through enough.

"It was nothing. Just a joke." Sam regretted even bringing it up. "So you already knew about Mrs. Gray," Sam assumed. He seemed to know everything about Amity Park.

"I know all about Gray," he said.

"Oh yeah?"

"I buried her," he stated matter-of-factly.

"You must know a lot about who's died in this town," Sam hummed.

He tilted his head, observing her cautiously. "Maybe. Why? What do you wanna know?"

"Has anyone else died in the house?" Sam asked.

"Of course." He smiled. "It's an old mansion. Emphasis on _old._ "

"I mean recently. Like the past five years."

"Not that I know of." But he squirmed a bit and looked too-intensely at her. His hand twitched like it wanted to rub the back of his neck. He always did that when he lied. Sam had been hanging out with him a lot this past month; she knew his ticks.

"You're lying," Sam noted. "Why?"

"No I'm not." His eyes grew huge.

"You don't have to protect me. I can handle the truth. I'm gonna find it out sooner or later," Sam warned. If anything, this only made her _more_ determined to figure out what had happened.

His smile dropped. "Sam, you're a really nice girl. Smart too. One of the smartest I've met in… in a really long time. First you're asking me about stuff that happened sixty years ago, now about the house… Both topics are dangerous. Don't go digging up stuff you can't put back."

Sam fell silent. She had never been called _nice_ before. That was new. Her fingers plucked at the grass around her feet as she absorbed his warning. What was wrong with trying to finish her report? Or trying to learn more about where she lived?

"You're going to do it anyway," he guessed.

She shrugged. "I'm not the type to run away."

He stared at her sadly.

"About that question you asked me, back at the junkyard. About whether or not I believed in ghosts. "I _do_ believe in ghosts. And I think one's following me."

He froze. "Oh? Is that why you killed a chicken?"

"I didn't kill the chicken," Sam corrected. "But that's not the point. The point is that I'm being haunted. So, how do you get rid of a ghost?"

"Why are you asking _me?"_ He hopped off the gravestone and paced, agitated.

Sam swallowed. Was there some truth to Tucker's claim? Why else would he get all nervous? "You work around dead people. You knew about the circus thing. Is it so far-fetched to think you know about ghosts too?"

"Oh," he stated, stilling. He sank down across from her. His shoulders slumped as he relaxed a touch. "Okay, yeah. That makes sense."

"So?" Sam prompted. "How do you get rid of a ghost?"

"Not with chicken blood," the gravekeeper laughed. He caught his breath and sobered. For a long moment he looked at her like he was internally debating what to say. He bit his lip, then blurted: "You have to finish their unfinished business."

Sam tilted her head. "What's that?"

"It's whatever they need to be at peace. Solve a murder, find somebody, give an heirloom or a message to a family member… you name it, all ghosts are different."

Sam frowned. "So... why not just tell someone what to do to help?"

"They can't," he whispered. "That's the curse. Some stay a ghost so long they forget they're a ghost. Others don't _want_ to leave."

There was something different about him. Sam stared, searching. Her eyes widened in realization and she leaned back.

"What?" His eyebrows scrunched in worry.

"You're not smoking." She sniffed the air, catching the scent of burned something and… mint? "And you're chewing gum. Are you trying to quit?"

His cheeks flushed and his hand shot through his hair, mussing up the strands until they fell out across his forehead, escaping the comb wave. "I thought you didn't like it when I smoked," he murmured.

"I don't," Sam said. "It's terrible for you."

He waved a hand as if to bat away her concern.

Sam beamed. "I'm proud of you." She meant it.

He coughed, looking up into the night sky with a shrug. "It's no big," he said softly. But, Sam could tell he was pleased with her praise.

Sam huffed. "It's big."

He shrugged again. "How far away do you think that star is?" he asked, pointing up into the sky.

Sam let him change the subject. She put her book back in her backpack and scooted closer so they were sitting side by side. Together they settled onto their backs. A small smile tugged at her lips as she stole a glance at his face. "My physics teacher said that the light we see from the stars is millions of years old. That star might not exist anymore. We could be looking into the past, seeing it's echo. It's almost like time travel." Sam said quietly.

His eyes flicked to hers. "We're seeing the evidence of its life," he murmured.

Sam nodded. His face was inches away and all his attention was glued to her. The blue of his eyes was startling. Were they even real? His sweetness, his humor... He was such a beautiful person. Was _he_ even real? A sudden intense feeling of fondness washed over her. Not thinking too hard about it, she leaned forward to kiss him. For a second she thought he leaned in too. But then he was leaning away from her and she wished she could take it back, because it meant that she had crossed some sort of invisible line. They were friends. With the potential to become _best_ friends. And she had just… ruined it.

"I'm sorry," she said.

The look on his face was one of pure devastation.

Sam panicked. She had had no one else that she could talk to like this in years. No one else that she could be her true self around so freely without fear of judgement or pity. Dark thoughts consumed her. "I don't know why I did that— I didn't mean— I'm just— I'm so lonely all the time. You're one of my favorite people. Can we just pretend that never happened…?" Sam trailed off hopelessly. "Please don't hate me."

"I don't hate you," he chuckled. He propped his head up onto his hand, resting upon his elbow. His smile faded slowly. "But we can't be like that. I shouldn't be spending as much time with you as it is. I have a job, you know."

"No!" Sam interrupted breathlessly. _"_ I can't lose you too." She was begging him; strike a match, set her pride on fire, watch it burn to ash at his feet.

"Too?" he echoed.

She closed her eyes, berating herself, spinning away from him to press her head into the soil, hard. The scent of grass overwhelmed her. She just wanted to sink into one of these graves and wait a good year before crawling back out, claws first. She needed a break. She wasn't great at this 'moving forward' thing. Why had she tried to kiss him? She didn't even know. She was a mystery to even herself now-a-days.

"Sam." He sent her a sad-sweet smile as she looked up at him. "I'm no good. You can't lose me 'cause I'm like that star; already lost."

Sam shook her head, confused. "Can I still come back here or not?" she whispered.

He leaned back and studied her for a moment before nodding.

Sam felt like she had shed a fifty pound coat. "Good," she whispered. _Good._ She slumped in relief. Maybe she hadn't ruined the one good thing she had.

He climbed to his feet and offered her his hand. "Let's get you home."

Sam opened her mouth to ask him if he was kicking her out, but she took one glance up at the sky and could tell it was pinkening. Dawn was approaching. She had been out all night. Bewildered, she realized that she had spent hours and hours chatting with him. Every time she hung out with him her sense of time warped. Hours passed like minutes.

She took his hand and straightened, dusting the dirt and grass off her jeans. As they wound their way silently down the hill she could sense there was something awkward now between them. So wrapped up in her own thoughts, she forgot about the salt line. It wasn't until they turned the corner to her house that she remembered.

When she did, she stumbled to a stop and gasped.

He paused ahead of her. "What?"

She stared at him. They had sauntered out of the graveyard through the gate. The salt line hadn't even made him flinch. He had crossed it. There was no way he had avoided it. Which meant he wasn't a ghost. He was a real person. A person that just happened to have an affinity for sweaters and wingtip shoes. Tucker was _wrong_.

"Sam?" he asked warily. "You okay?"

"I'm okay," she breathed. "I'm great, actually." She continued to walk, catching up. As she passed she took another, more critical, look at him. Besides the green tint that his eyes sometimes got and the wavering quality of his shadow, he looked human enough.

He quirked an eyebrow at her as she passed. "You're weird."

"Thanks," she quipped.

Together they crept through the side garden, avoiding the nettles and the blackberry thorns. She raised her arms and he grabbed her from underneath her armpits, hoisting her up into the air so she could get ahold of the bottom rung of the fire escape.

"Good morning, Danny," she said as she leaned out of her window. "I'll see you again soon?"

He glanced towards the hills in the distance, where the sun was beginning to crest from behind twin peaks, then he turned back to her. His eyes softened. "See you later," he promised, much to her relief. With a lazy salute, he took off around the side of the house.

Sam smiled to herself as she quietly shut her bedroom window and crawled to bed. Her head barely hit the pillow before her alarm clock went off.


	10. Don't, I Beg of You

.

〰〰〰

 **10**

Don't, I Beg of You

〰〰〰

Something had happened.

Sam caught Tucker's eye from down the hallway. She had been at school for a whole minute and a half and already knew something was up.

He shot her a look and shook his head once, slammed his locker door, and weaved his way through the crowd of students over to her locker. Clumps of students clustered about whispering. Sam strained her ear to try and listen in, but couldn't catch anything.

"Who died?" Sam joked, as Tucker approached.

His look darkened.

Sam immediately knew someone had, in fact, died. She sucked in a quick breath and finished taking her books out of her locker. She didn't even need that math book for first period, but she took it anyway. "Oh," she said.

"Mikey," Tucker whispered. "Last night."

Her mind raced. _Mikey? Mikey Voss?_ But he had been fine at that Spirit Club meeting when she had left the group to get her bike. "What happened?" she asked.

"I don't know the whole story. I overheard some people saying it was a suicide. I suspect they'll make an announcement in homeroom before the rumors get too out of hand."

Sam swallowed several times, her mouth dry. "That's…" Her gaze wandered over to a group of students weeping openly. A pair of girls were clutching each other, while a boy patted their backs, looking lost and helpless. Must be kids that knew Mikey. Sam quickly averted her eyes, feeling like she was intruding on some kind of moment. She had only known the kid for a month, so really, she didn't know Mikey at all. "That's awful," she finished.

.

.

Teslaff was three and a half minutes late to homeroom. Sam kept her eyes on the clock, watching as it wound around and around, dread curling in her stomach. Her thoughts were stuck on Mikey had last said to her. He had wanted to tell her something. What was it? Why hadn't she asked him about it before she had left? She had totally forgotten.

At four minutes and seventeen seconds, Teslaff entered the room without her usual fanfare. The door didn't swing around and bang with the force of her shove. Instead she quietly closed it behind her and walked to the front of the class. The whisperings died out like someone ripping a needle off a vinyl record. From somewhere behind Sam, someone sniffed wetly.

Teslaff cleared her throat and stood there at a loss, before she found her voice. "This morning we found out some... some news," she said finally. Sam had never heard her speak so gently. Usually she boomed orders with the volume of an air horn. "Last night Michael Voss passed away. Cause of death is still undetermined. An investigation is underway."

A few students sucked in a soft gasp. A chair let out a squeak. Sam wrapped her fingers around the edges of her desk and sat as still as possible. When Tucker had told her it felt like a rumor. With Teslaff announcing it in her blunt gruff way… this was _real._ Mikey was really gone.

"The Voss family asks that we all respect their privacy. Mikey was a great student and a loyal friend. He will be missed."

Teslaff paused for a moment, as if to collect her thoughts. "While we don't know the cause of death, in light of what happened three years ago, Principal Ishiyama wanted me to urge each and every one of you to practice caution," Teslaff continued. "Have a buddy past sundown. Do not wander. Keep track of friends and relatives. Make sure you know where they are."

Over half of the class craned their heads over to Valerie's desk, where she was sitting, stiffly, looking determinedly out of the window.

"We have a team, including our counselor Ms Spectra, holding sessions this week for anyone that wishes to talk about what happened."

"Also, if anyone is feeling… depressed, or hopeless, or know of anyone feeling this way, please reach out to someone. Do not suffer in silence. You are not alone." She bowed her head. "Let's take a moment."

Sam watched as students dipped their heads and clenched their eyes, looking for all intents and purposes like a crowd bracing for a tsunami. This moment of silence felt fraught with suspense, like everyone was holding their breath. No one wanted to know what would happen next; certain it would be awful.

The rest of homeroom passed in tense silence. As soon as the bell rang students jumped up and made for the door. Sam got up to follow suit.

"Manson. A word?"

Sam froze in paranoia. Did Teslaff somehow know what happened last night? With the seance? With Mikey? Did she— Sam forced away the thoughts. She was being ridiculous. There was no way Teslaff could know that.

"Yeah?" Sam asked, as she crossed the classroom.

Teslaff held out a slip of paper. It was a late pass. "If it's alright with you, one of our therapists, Dr. Matthews, would like to speak with you before first period."

Sam hesitated. "What does she want?"

"Just to see if you had any questions or want to talk about Mikey's death," Teslaff said. "Your choice, of course."

Sam glared at the slip of paper. She had talked to enough psychiatrists in the past two weeks. But… she _did_ have questions, and while she wasn't sure if this Dr. Matthews could answer them, Sam figured she could at least ask them. She reached out and took the slip, glancing down at the room number.

.

.

Dr. Matthews turned out to be an old lady. She had intelligent blue eyes that were enormous, magnified behind black rimmed glasses that were attached to her neck with a beaded chain. Thick white hair fell right above her shoulders in a bob. Her face was marred with sunspots. She had a hunch, and was dressed in a plain sea-foam green long-sleeve sweater and black pants. She looked soft, like the human embodiment of a pillow. Her hair, the color of her sweater, her eyes, the sagging skin around her mouth...

As soon as Sam entered the room, she was greeted with a smile.

"Good morning. Have a seat, Ms. Manson," Dr. Matthews said. "I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me." Her voice was soft, polite, yet confident. Sam immediately liked the woman. Something about her was familiar… and calming. Maybe it was the fact that she was a kindly old lady.

"It's Sam," Sam said on auto-pilot as she took a seat. She crossed her legs and glanced around the room. It was plain. It had a whiteboard along one side of it, a desk with various office supplies organized in neat rows, and a small house plant in the corner. Sam guessed it was an unused office. Or perhaps it was someone else's office and had been commandeered for the day.

"Pleased to meet you, Sam. My name is Dr. Matthews." The lady leaned forward a bit on the desk and squinted to see Sam better. Her gnarled hands wove together and rested gently atop the desk. Sam noted she had really long fingers that bulged at each knuckle, red nail polish, and a very sparkly marquise diamond wedding ring. "I am stepping in temporarily for a few days to help Ms. Spectra provide support for anyone that needs it."

"You're a psychologist," Sam accused.

"I am a grief counselor," she corrected gently. "Although, yes, you are absolutely correct in that grief therapy is a branch of psychology." She spoke in a very slow and deliberate manner, as if she was plucking each word carefully from an expansive vocabulary. And yet, Sam didn't feel stupid in her presence. "But that's enough about me," Dr. Matthews continued. "I called you here to discuss Mikey's death, and answer any questions you might have, should you desire to talk about it."

"Is it true? Did he commit suicide?" Sam asked.

"Where did you hear that he committed suicide?"

Sam frowned. "There are rumors going around."

"As far as I know, the cause of death is still underway. The police have yet to release an official statement," Dr. Matthews said solemnly. She paused and considered Sam for a moment. "How did you feel, after you heard the news?"

Sam's shoulders hunched. Immediately a mental wall flew up. At the same time a voice in her head screamed _GUILTY._ Sam bit her lip and looked down at the floor, her eyes tracing the puke-colored carpeting. Her gaze found a stain near the right-front leg of the desk.

She had just seen Mikey last night. Was there something that had happened that had set him off? Something _she_ had done? After a full three minutes lost in her own thoughts, she realized that Dr. Matthews was still sitting there, patiently.

Sam glanced up and cleared her throat. "Sorry," she murmured.

"It's quite alright," Dr. Matthews said, as if nothing strange had happened. "I know his death must come as a horrible shock."

Sam nodded in agreement. They sat in comfortable silence for another minute or two. She felt her shoulders relax away from her ears as she realized Dr. Matthews wasn't going to press her. This lady was… nice. Sam blinked. That was the first time she had called a shrink nice. Sam got the feeling that Dr. Matthews would be content sitting there with her for hours. Sam pictured the woman pleasantly knitting a scarf at her own leisure or something to pass the time while Sam sat there, mute.

"It's perfectly normal to have no words to describe how you're feeling right now. Everyone deals with grief differently," Dr. Matthews said in her slow, empathetic voice. "Mikey's death was sudden and unexpected. In that way it may feel unfair, or unreal, for a while."

Sam nodded again.

"There is nothing you could have said or done to prevent his death," she continued.

Sam started. She glanced up in shock. How did she know—?

"In my experience, people often find that talking about loss is the first step in coping with death. Should you ever decide you want to talk about it, or if you ever feel overwhelmed, there are resources available to you. If not Ms. Spectra or myself, consider opening up to your friends or family." Dr. Matthews paused. "Do you understand?" she asked softly.

"Yes." Sam got the feeling that Dr. Matthews was talking about more than just Mikey's death. Her sharp eyes looked straight through her, like an x-ray, seeing her for all her darkness and meanness and overall shittiness, and yet… Sam didn't feel judged or pitied. This lady was a shrink, but she made Sam feel a little less crazy, a little more safe.

"Good." Dr. Matthews smiled. Her eyes and cheeks wrinkled. "Do you have any other questions for me before you return to class?"

Sam shook her head, then paused. "Can I have your card?"

.

.

Lunch was a sullen affair.

Sam peered around the half-empty cafeteria. Many students had left, their parents pulling them out of class after word got around about Mikey. Sam noted that Star, Paulina, Dash, and Kwan were seated at their usual table. None of them had left. Not that Sam had expected them to. Only Kwan looked visibly upset.

Tucker plopped down across from her and let his tray clatter to the table. He picked up an apple and turned it around in his hand, nose wrinkling. With a hollow thud, he dropped it back to his tray and sighed.

Sam didn't have much of an appetite either. She was eating her food mechanically. Not knowing what to say in a situation like this, she said, "Man, at this rate the whole school will be on antidepressants."

"Not those," Tucker noted, his eyes glancing over to the A-Listers.

"Nah, they wouldn't know empathy if it smacked them in the face," Sam said around a tofu bite.

Tucker snorted, picking at his lasagna. It was in one of those little pre-packaged cardboard boxes, plastic foil halfway ripped off, still damp with steam. Sam eyed it distrustfully. Yep, her appetite was gone. If it wasn't before, that sweaty food just ruined it for her.

She got up to toss the rest out. As she did, she noted the hushed whispers and the pale faces. Everyone seemed on edge. "How do people know it was a suicide?" Sam asked as she sat back down at the table. "They haven't released the cause of death."

"I heard he jumped off the roof of his apartment complex," Tucker whispered. "Seems pretty suicidal. Why else would he be up on a roof?"

Sam shivered at the mental image, then shook her head, unconvinced. She had seen enough tricks in this town. The thought of something duping Mikey into climbing up onto the roof wasn't far-fetched to her. Not when she remembered the very real-looking detour sign she had run into a few nights ago. They had tried to summon a ghost last night. The candle had gone out. Had they succeeded? Had Phantom shadowed him home only to lure him up and off the roof?

"He was bullied a lot. Used to be Dash's favorite victim," Tucker muttered under his breath. His eyes flashed behind his glasses. "Anyways, I'm not hungry," Tucker said. "Let's just go to history early." He got up and slung his backpack over one shoulder, tossing the lasagna as they left through the double doors. He spoke over his shoulder as they walked. "Three years ago some people died or went missing. People of all ages, not just kids. Lots of them were ruled suicides but some never were found."

Sam nodded. She already knew this, but she wasn't about to tell Tucker she had attended a Spirit Club meeting. "That's awful," she mumbled. "So… Everyone thinks it's going to happen again?"

Tucker grimaced. "Two suicides in less than a month? _Definitely_ suspicious. Back then there were reports of weird happenings. You saw that dog… we saw that guy at the junkyard and… and that Danny kid." Tucker paused, shooting her a look. "I think people have good reason to be scared. The ghosts are back at it again. Something has woken them all up."

Sam stumbled as someone clipped her shoulder. She glanced up just in time to see Valerie high-tailing it out of the school, slamming her way through the big double doors to the parking lot.

According to Valerie, her house was the reason all the ghosts were back. Sam considered telling Tucker this, but was suddenly afraid he would abandon her once he found where she lived. Instead she said, "Danny isn't a ghost."

"Sam." Tucker frowned. "That kid is for _sure_ a ghost."

"Maybe not. I tested him last night. He passed," Sam said as they rounded the corner towards Lancer's class.

Curiosity shimmered in his eye. "How'd you test him?"

"Salt line," she stated proudly. "He didn't even notice. Crossed it and everything."

"Salt line," Tucker repeated. He stopped in his tracks and stared at her for a long second, before he cracked a wide grin. "Where'd you get _that_ idea? _America's Most Haunted_ or something? Don't tell me, you're catching up on the _X-Files._ Salt lines! Oh man."

"Okay, fine," Sam grated. She tapped her foot a few times until Tucker got ahold of himself. "So salt doesn't work?"

"I mean, maybe on weaker ghosts. But a ghost as powerful as the kid we saw in the junkyard? He wouldn't even notice. Where'd you get the idea to use salt?"

Sam mumbled underneath her breath.

"What?"

"Paulina," Sam admitted.

Tucker tried to keep his lips tightly shut, but a _pfffftttttspp_ escaped and soon enough he was cackling again.

Sam's lip twitched. She couldn't help it. She laughed softly. Now that she thought about it, believing anything Paulina said was idiotic. "Well, what _does_ work against a ghost?" Sam asked after a minute of chortling.

Tucker sobered. "Their relic," he told her. "Each ghost has an item they treasured in life. Something important to them. Could be a diary, a medal, even a teddy bear. They're repelled by it. Maybe seeing it stirs up emotions they shouldn't have. Maybe they forget they were ever alive in the first place, and the relic reminds them of what they lost."

"What about holy water? Crosses?"

"Those things don't really work. All ghosts are different," Tucker said. "More powerful ghosts can break any rule. It's all a matter of interpretation." They started walking down the hall again. "Like, for example: ghosts can't enter someone's property without permission. But, what does it mean to give permission?"

Sam shrugged. She grabbed the handle for the door and opened it, gesturing for Tucker to go in first. "Like this?" She elaborated the gesture.

"That's one way," Tucker agreed, walking through the threshold of the door. The pair of them slid into their seats near the back of the class. There were hardly any people in there yet.

"What's another way?" Sam asked. "Saying it aloud?"

Tucker nodded. "But what about leaving a window open? What if you invited them inside once? Does that mean they can come back? What about if you told someone that" —he made quotation marks with his fingers— "You should drop by sometime."

"That's an invitation to come over, but not an invitation to come inside," Sam reasoned.

"See that's the thing. Ghosts, especially powerful ghosts, can reinterpret the rules. Break them even, if they feel like it."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "How do you know so much about ghosts?"

Tucker glanced down at his desk, at the US history book atop his papers. He scanned the front of it a few times, brow furrowed, silent. "Three years ago Valerie and I hunted them. More like Valerie hunted them, and I made her equipment. Until... her mom..." Tucker trailed off.

"You?" Sam asked incredulously. For some reason Tucker didn't seem like the type to hunt anything, much less the paranormal. Then again, she was finding out a lot of people in Amity Park led strange double lives. She thought of her graveyard oasis and knew she was included in that.

"Don't talk about it to anyone."

Who would she tell? Sam had no one else. "Why not?"

"Valerie asked me to keep it quiet. Last time, people found out about her ghost hunting they said she pissed them off, made it worse. Lots of people blamed her for what happened. She… she doesn't want anything to do with ghosts anymore. She doesn't want anything to do with anything anymore."

Sam knew that all too well. She paused and appraised Tucker in a new light. "What kind of equipment did you help her with?"

Tucker straightened up in his chair and took in a huge breath. Sam already knew she was going to regret this. "Do you want to see them? I still have them in my room. Wanna come over to my place? Maybe tomorrow? I can show you a few things—"

"Are you hitting on me?" Sam asked dryly.

"—got one detector that picks up electromagnetic disturbances. Ghosts warp the earth's magnetic field. Their energy creates an anomaly—" Tucker continued, not hearing her. "You should use _that_ on your ghost friend. I bet he'd light it up like a Christmas tree. It'd practically scream _'I Am a Ghost, Fear Me!'_ "

" _Please_ tell me you don't actually have something that says that," Sam deadpanned.

"No, but I should make one," Tucker mused, tapping a finger against his chin.

Sam realized he was being serious. "Alright. I'll come check out your ghost inventions," she said, despite herself. "Friday."

.

.

After grabbing dinner with Tucker after school, Sam walked back home, reaching the front door just past nightfall.

Sam glanced around the empty hall as she quietly closed and locked the door behind her. She shrugged her backpack off and plopped it next to the door. Her parents didn't sound like they were home. Sam smiled. Good. She didn't have to deal with them.

As she walked past the double staircases and meandered down the hallway leading towards the kitchen, she remembered vaguely her mother saying she was going to some kind of fundraiser over at town hall. Something about cleaning up that park. Sam hadn't really paid attention. Her parents swapped causes like they swapped cars. Always onto the newest, shiniest toys. Sam doubted this Amity Park cleanup was going to last much longer. Already, she was surprised it had lasted as long as it had.

Lost in thought, she navigated her way around the boxes and different slabs of marble. Her mother was finishing renovating the kitchen. A new refrigerator hummed softly in the corner, plastic wrap still wrapped to the handle.

Sam yanked it open with a pop, a cold blast pelting her in the face, and reached to grab the orange juice. As she placed the carton on the counter and grabbed a nearby cup, she saw a flurry of movement out of the corner of her eye and whipped her head around. The motion light mounted to the porch was on. Sam's grip tightened on her glass. A shadow crawled along the floor near the windows, as if someone was walking along the side of the house, before a face appeared at the back door.

That woman from before— Evelyn— waved chipperly back. "Knock, knock, neighbor," she greeted, voice clear through the thin pane of glass. "Can I come in?"

"No," Sam blurted.

Evelyn's smile fell a notch. "Honey, is everything alright? You look _terrified._ Are your parents home?"

"They're upstairs," Sam lied nervously. "My dad and my mom. Both of them. Upstairs."

"Oh perfect," Evelyn said. "I need to have a word with them."

"They're busy." It was the only thing Sam could think to say. She wasn't sure why she was so freaked out by this woman. Today had been freaky, what with news of Mikey's death. Lot's of weird shit had happened and Sam was beginning to take everyone's warnings to heart. Besides, something about this woman was fishy. Why had she been in their backyard? Why not knock on the _front_ door? What was going on?

"I bet they are, with all this remodeling," Evelyn said sourly. Something flashed in her eyes. Her face was half-shrouded, bathed in the harsh motion light beaming down from atop the door.

Sam realized with a jolt who Evelyn reminded her of. That hot anger, that sadness and tenacity. It reminded her of Valerie Gray. It was the same look that Valerie had given her before she had punched her.

"Anyway, are you going to let me in?" Evelyn asked.

Sam stared at her. Was this a ghost? Was she talking to Mrs. Gray? What did she want? Why was she hanging around the kitchen? Sam's stomach churned. Tucker had said ghosts needed permission to come inside. A lump formed somewhere in her throat. She cleared it. "I can't. I'm sorry," she said more calmly than she felt. "Now isn't a good time."

Evelyn paused. "Oh. I see."

What did she see? Sam took a step backwards, unconsciously.

Evelyn leaned forward until her nose was almost touching the glass. Her sharp green eyes narrowed. For a second Sam was certain she would walk right through that door, permission be damned. But, instead, she sighed and her face softened. "You're a good girl, Samantha."

Sam opened her mouth and closed it wordlessly, struck mute by the compliment. It was one she had never received before.

"Have you seen Danny recently?" Evelyn asked.

Sam thought of the little stars in his eyes; the scent of dirt and the salt line poured. "No," she lied. She liked to believe he wasn't dead. There was no way she'd would intentionally lead a ghost to him.

Evelyn inspected her curiously. "It's just, I haven't seen him in days. It's so unlike him. He's been acting… not himself. I need to know where he is."

"I haven't seen him," Sam answered stiffly. "Sorry. Wish I could help."

"Okay," Evelyn said. She leaned away from the window. "Until you're a mother, you can't possibly understand… If you see him, please let me know. Can you ask your parents if they've seen him around when they're… less busy?"

"I will," Sam promised, twisting her fingers behind her back.

Evelyn's eyes gazed around the interior of the kitchen. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, presumably at all the changes Sam's mother was making, before she gave Sam a polite 'goodnight' and paced off towards the forest.

Sam shivered and relocked the door, over and over. She checked all the windows and closed all the blinds, half expecting to see Evelyn's face peering back at her, nose pressed against the pane, eyes huge and a crazed, demonic smile.

For a half hour she paced the kitchen, taking small sips directly from the orange juice carton. She considered calling her parents and telling them what had happened, but thought better of it. Some part of her was certain her mother would have been mad at her for not letting Evelyn inside. Her mother was all about etiquette. Besides, Sam didn't like calling her parents for help. She didn't like asking anyone for help.

She thought about the gravekeeper and how Evelyn had directed him around the last time they had been in the house. She had kept a hand on his shoulder almost the entire time. Sam knew that she was being hunted by someone, or something. What if he was too?

* * *

—Diary Entry, IV—

Saturday August 11th, 1962

Dear Diary,

Danny and I got in a huge fight. I know, I know, you must be thinking: Really, she's going to waste precious paper ranting about her brother again? I can't stand being mad at him. He pouts even worse than Dad. But this time I can't bring myself to apologise. He's being super immature and hasn't talked to me in days, so I guess he must still think he's right.

Anyway, I'm sure you're wondering what this big fight was all about. Well, Johnny proposed, and I said yes. We're moving in together into his parent's place. Which means, of course, that after I graduate High School I'm not going to college.

Danny flipped when he found out. Really it's none of his business how I live my life. I love Johnny. Sure he's a little rough around the edges, but he'll take care of me. We'll have a nice family, a comfortable life. I don't need to go to college anymore. Danny doesn't understand that. He's a boy.

.

Sunday August 12th, 1962

Dear Diary,

Danny's still off fuming from our fight. Mom and Dad are getting worried though because he hasn't been back all day and he hasn't called. I'm sure he's just off riding around in his new car. He's had his permit for all of five months. He probably went to Shelly's or something.

In other news, Johnny got me a bike just like his. It's red and absolutely beautiful. He started to teach me how to ride it. I'm going to wait to tell Dad and Danny about the bike. It'll be yet another thing for them to try and control.

.

Monday August 13th, 1962

Dear Diary,

Still no sign of Danny. He skipped supper and didn't come home at all last night. It's been almost a whole day. He's taking this temper tantrum thing to the next level. You'd think he'd grow up. He's fifteen, for crying out loud.

.

Tuesday August 14th, 1962

It's been two days since anyone last saw Danny.

Mom and Dad called the police, but they just think Danny ran away from home because of our fight. Something about this feels really wrong. Danny wouldn't run. Sure, he likes to be alone when he's mad, but he always comes back. He's never done this before.

My parents have been all around the neighborhood, but no one's seen him since Saturday night. I've called his friends. Nothing.

Mom and Dad are beside themselves. This better not be one of his dumb pranks. I keep expecting Danny to just waltz through the door, but what if something actually happened to him? What if he's hurt? What if he crashed his car? He's always driving that car way too fast. The last thing I said to him was that he was an overprotective asshole.


	11. Honey, Don't!

.

〰〰〰

 **11**

Honey, Don't!

〰〰〰

Sam stared at the second hand as it slowly wound its way around the clock. The rest of the week had gone by quietly. Everyone at school seemed tired and withdrawn. Class went on and Mikey's death was scarcely mentioned except in whispered passing. Yesterday it had been ruled, officially, a suicide. His empty chair spoke in volumes. Sam kept finding herself staring at it, as if her gaze was magnetically seeking out his absence.

In exactly thirteen minutes it would be officially the weekend, which Sam dreaded. The weekend meant time spent trapped with her parents. Already she was plotting how to maximize her time away from them. She made a list of different chores she could do to justify being alone. It was bad when you started looking forward to writing a research paper that wasn't even due for another three months. Or cleaning your room, doing your laundry by hand, sneaking out at night and wandering until some sort of purpose presented itself. Sam's eyes glazed over as she thought of going back to the graveyard to warn the gravekeeper about Evelyn. She hoped he'd still let her sit and talk with him, which then led her to wondering what he was doing right now, at that exact second. She pictured his laugh and the new minty scent of his breath. A little too late she realized she was pining over a boy who had— with all the politeness in the world—rejected her. Her eyes refocused and she realized they had made their way to Mikey's empty desk without her permission. She frowned.

The school bell erupted and students clamored out of their seats for the door.

Sam glanced down at her notebook, finding it blank. In her hand her pen sat poised atop the first line where she had written _Sam Manson, Period 6, US History, Friday October 23rd_ , across it. So much for taking notes. She shoved her notebook into her backpack and made for the door.

Tucker came up behind her, chattering. That's right. She had told him she'd come over and look at his ghost hunting MacGyver stuff. After everything that had happened this week, she had forgotten.

"Foley. Manson. A word please?"

Tucker shot her a confused look, hand on the doorknob. Together they walked back over to Lancer's desk. Sam frowned. Was this about what she had said last week, when she had tried to get the project changed?

"What's up?" Tucker asked lightly, although his tone had a nervous edge to it. He slumped into a chair, his sneaker bouncing up and down, knee bobbing.

Lancer rubbed at his eyes for a moment, tiredly. "Given what happened this week, I wanted to take a moment and ask… are you two okay?"

"Fine," Sam deflected, before really thinking about it.

Her eyes flicked to Mikey's desk. Her gaze softened. For all his quirks, he was a good kid. Anger coursed through her at the thought that ghosts could have led Mikey astray and that they could do this to someone else if she didn't figure out a way to stop them.

"It's sad. It's definitely weird not seeing him around," Tucker said solemnly.

Lancer sighed. He looked exhausted, and… uneasy. His hair was frazzled and his eyes had dark circles. "Manson brought up a good point last week. And after… well, now that you two are down a partner I think it's unfair to be assigned a time period that has little information."

Tucker's head whipped in her direction.

"I thought you wanted us to try," Sam said in confusion.

Last week he had all but goaded her to keep looking for clues. But now he was staring at her tiredly, wrinkles adorning the crinkles in his eyes. "That being said, I want you two to focus on the 90's instead for your final report."

"But we already found out some stuff, stuff you even said you didn't know," Sam argued. _"You're_ the one that talked me into it."

"Sam," Tucker interrupted. "This is good. The 90's have a ton more information." He gazed at her pleadingly, begging her to shut up and just take the easy A, but Sam couldn't.

Lancer's grip tightened on his pen. "This is not a debate, Ms. Manson."

Sam opened her mouth angrily, thought better of it, and closed it. Her eyes narrowed. "I don't care. I'm still doing the 50's," she told him. She yanked her backpack on and catapulted out of her chair, fleeing the room, slamming the door behind her.

"Sam! Wait up!"

Sam whirled around the corner and nearly ran right into Valerie Gray, who ducked out of the way at the last second, glared at her, and continued down the hallway. Sam watched her go, noting how the rest of the students stumbled back until their backs hit the lockers to avoid her. Ever since Mikey's death Valerie was the new target of everyone's attention. It seemed the school had already forgotten about Sam and her imaginary dog.

A hand grabbed her on the wrist. Sam flinched and wrenched it free.

"Sorry," Tucker said sheepishly. "Jeez you're jumpy."

"Am not," Sam denied immediately.

Tucker rolled his eyes. "No, of course not. And I'm the mayor of Amity Park."

Sam took off for the front doors and Tucker trailed along beside. Sam knew better than to think she could shake him off.

"Why don't you want to do the 90's?" Tucker asked after a moment.

"Because that's giving up," Sam grated. "That's opting for the easy way out just because something's hard."

"Try impossible," Tucker muttered. "I think we should just do what Lancer said."

"It's not impossible. Someone has got to know something. The 50's weren't that long ago—" Sam stopped herself. _Of course._

"Sam?" Tucker questioned.

"We've been going about this the wrong way," Sam explained. "We need to get eyewitness testimony, not the archives. People can clean out papers, but they can't erase memories." She thought of her grandmother, who had lived in the area for years. She was so stupid. So selfish. They had moved almost two months ago and she had only visited her grandmother once.

Tucker hesitated. "We're not going to old people homes, right? I don't do hospitals."

"It's assisted living, Tucker," Sam told him as she took off back down the road towards Tucker's house.

He shivered as he caught up to her. "How about we just do the 90's, look up some stuff on Wikipedia, fake some sources, and call it a day? You can dress up like Britney Spears, I'll be—"

"First of all, Britney Spears was in the 2000's. Second of all, before he died, Mikey wanted to tell me something, but he never got the chance. What if he found something while researching our project? Something the ghosts didn't like?" Sam thought of the way Danny kept asking her to stop looking into the past, kept warning her it was dangerous.

Tucker stumbled to a halt. "What? _When?_ Why didn't you tell me?" Tucker accused.

Sam paused and glanced at him, seeing his hurt expression, guilt curling in her stomach. She tore her gaze away and looked down at the ground. "The day before he died. After class."

 _"Why didn't you tell me?"_ Tucker repeated.

"Because I didn't want anyone to know!" Sam blurted. "If I had listened, maybe he'd still be around."

Tucker paused. His scowl softened. "It's not your fault, Sam. You had no way of knowing."

Sam wasn't so sure. "Don't you think it's a bit odd that Lancer suddenly doesn't want us to do the 50's? Is it really just because we have two people now instead of three? It's almost like he's freaked out after what happened with Mikey."

"Good. He should be," Tucker gritted. " _You_ should be! How can you not be freaked out?"

That gave her pause. Sam frowned. The idea that Mikey would never occupy that chair in her history class was… strange. But, maybe it was because she didn't witness it, or maybe it was because she hadn't known him for very long, or maybe she was still recovering from Amanda Scully's death, and Joy Nguyen before her… but mortality as a concept was bothering her less and less with each passing day. This numbness… was this normal?

The one thing that kept sticking in her mind was Mikey's last words to her. _After this I have something to tell you._ What was it?

Sam adjusted her backpack and looked down. "I'm sad Mikey's gone. I am. But don't you want to know what happened? If the ghosts are really back, and they're to blame, then who's to say this won't happen again? Don't you think it's coincidental that there's hardly any information on the 50's? And as soon Mikey might have found something, he dies and Lancer wants us to stop digging? Obviously something happened back then and we're close to figuring it out."

Tucker laughed humorlessly. "Close? All we have is a circus accident and a Mayor. And we've been looking for a month."

"Soon we'll have more," Sam stated confidently.

"Why do you care so much?" Tucker grumbled. "Everyone else will wait until the last week to write this stupid report. It's just a grade."

"Because I have a feeling it's important," Sam said, frustrated.

Tucker sighed. "Ok. Say we _are_ close. Say Mikey _did_ find out something he wasn't supposed to. Say the ghosts _did_ have something to do with Mikey's death. What's to stop them from doing the same to us?"

Sam fell silent for a moment. Truthfully, nothing. Nothing would stop them. "I don't know," she admitted, "But if we don't try, who will?"

Tucker stared at her for a long second. "My place is this way," Tucker said, and hooked a right at the next intersection. He tossed her a curious look. Sam could tell he was exasperated. He didn't understand.

Truth be told, Sam wasn't sure herself. It was hard to explain. More of a gut feeling. "I just feel like there's something bigger going on," she said quietly.

Tucker merely shook his head.

.

.

"Your family's into Halloween, huh?" Sam asked dryly as she climbed up the stoop of Tucker's small two-story brownstone. The wrought-iron banisters were covered in fake cobwebs and plastic spiders. Little light up pumpkins littered the front yard and a hand-sewn skeleton was hanging from the front door, so large that it's head touched the crest of the door and it's bony feet dragged along the doormat.

Tucker had to lift the ghoul's wrist to get to the doorknob. "My mom's obsessed," Tucker grumbled. He pushed the door open, revealing a dark hallway and a narrow set of steps and glanced back at her. "In Amity Park, Halloween is a bigger deal than Christmas."

"I've noticed." As soon as October hit, the Halloween frenzy had ignited. It was all she overheard anyone talking about. Enormous costume stores had popped up on every corner. Pumpkins adorned each lawn. At the high school, someone had stuck little plastic black cats in the lawn, their backs raised, ears flat, tail spiked.

"This way," Tucker said, galloping up the steps.

Sam had already known that Tucker was a huge nerd, but standing in his bedroom, she wasn't sure if the term 'huge' quite encompassed the severity. Posters of different superheros covered almost every inch of Tucker's room. Sam noted that many of them were female, scantily dressed in tight jumpsuits, fighting crime in unrealistic battle gear. On his desk sat stacks of comic books and manga, along with a three-screen computer setup that was humming along. He had one of those ergonomic desk chairs that swiveled and adjusted in each and every way. Tucker spun around in it.

"So?" Tucker asked. "Nice, isn't it?"

Sam unhooked her backpack from her shoulder and dropped it at the door, then crossed the room with some trepidation and took a seat on the edge of his unmade bed. "Nice isn't the first word I thought of. More like… something else..." she offered.

Tucker unlocked the drawer to his file cabinet and yanked it open. He fished inside for a minute before withdrawing what looked like a tube of lipstick.

"Ok, this is getting super weird," Sam stated. She was into weird stuff, but this was a bit much. "Are you going to tell me you regularly cosplay as Batwoman?"

Tucker paused. "What? How'd you know?" He tossed her the lipstick container with a grin. "Just kidding. That's the ghost detector. Most of the stuff I made for Valerie was some sort of accessory. Ghosts are smart. You can't just point a gun at them and have them not notice. Besides, it's not like a gun would work."

Sam raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. She twisted the steel top off and saw that the inside resembled more of a flash drive. There was no tube of lipstick. Instead a small, round wand-like apparatus with three lights blinked lazily. The lights were green and each one slightly delayed from the other so it looked like they were radiating out from her.

"You just have to uncap it to turn it on," Tucker explained. "That's the beauty of it. It's super convenient. Valerie used to be able to pretend she was touching up her makeup and no one was the wiser."

"It's pretty smart," Sam admitted. She had to give it to him. "But does it actually work?"

Tucker snatched it back from her. "Of course!" He scowled grumpily at her, looking much like an offended cat. "Don't listen to her, darling," he told the lipstick. "She's a cynic."

Sam looked up to the ceiling for inspiration and let out a slow breath. Not for the first time, she wondered what she was doing. Why had she been dumped in this bizarre story where ghosts existed, against all logic and all scientific reasoning? "Okay, fine. So tell me what it's supposed to do," Sam cut.

"Well, you and I aren't ghosts, or else it would be lit up right now." Tucker turned the device back around and tapped at the three tiny LED lights. "If you're close to a ghost— and I mean _close_ , because I haven't worked out the range on these things. The battery alone took an impressive amount of engineering…"

"Tucker..." Sam warned.

"Right. If you're within ten feet of a ghost the three lights all light up at once and stop blinking."

"That's it?" Sam asked.

Tucker capped the device and held it to his chest, hurt. "What do you mean? You want more? Let me tell you, in this town, being able to identify a ghost could save your life." His face faltered, then saddened. Sam guessed he was thinking of Mikey.

"Say you find out you're right next to a ghost. Then what?" Sam asked, kicking out her boots as she settled herself at the foot of his bed. "It's one thing to know, but another to do something about it. Don't you have any nets? Any shields?"

Tucker tossed back the lipstick and Sam snatched it from the air. She watched him continue to rummage around in his filing cabinet. He pulled out what looked like—

"Really? A thermos?" Sam asked blankly. Although, after the lipstick container she wouldn't be surprised.

Tucker tossed it over one shoulder. It collided with the back wall and fell to the floor to join the rest of this dirty laundry and burger wrappers. "That's not it," he mumbled. "I was wondering where that went. Mom's gonna be pissed. I should probably wash that…"

Sam wrinkled her nose.

"Ah-ha!" He held up what looked like a pendant. It was a circular disc attached to a long silver chain. He pressed it and it clicked, like it was one giant button. "Still working on this baby, but it _should_ emit a high frequency wave that repels ghosts."

"Is it doing anything?" Sam asked.

"It only does it for a few seconds after you press it. Like a pulse or two. Humans can't hear it. Hopefully that's enough to stall a ghost long enough for you to get away. We never got to test it out. Valerie… Well, the ghosts stopped before we got to use it. Theoretically it _should_ work. I just have maybe a week more to finish it."

Right. Valerie's mom had happened. Evelyn Gray. At least, Sam was _pretty_ sure that had been Evelyn Gray creeping around her back door. Suddenly lipstick-shaped ghost detectors were a hot commodity.

"How did Valerie hunt ghosts?" Sam asked.

"She tracked down their relics," Tucker said, leaning back in his desk chair. He propped his feet up against his desk and wrapped the pendant around his neck. "Ghosts _really_ don't like their relics. She probably still has a few of them."

"So… destroying the relics destroys the ghost?" Sam guessed.

"No," Tucker frowned. "Relics are like a shield. Ghosts don't like seeing them, so they'll stay away. If you destroyed the relic, you'd have nothing to ward the ghost off."

"So relics only keep ghosts at a distance," Sam summarized.

Tucker nodded.

"Have you ever thought of instead _helping_ them?" Sam asked lightly.

Tucker froze mid-nod. "What? _Help_ a ghost?"

"I mean, they're here for a reason, right? Once that reason is fulfilled, they'll go away. For good." Sam didn't mention that it was the gravekeeper that had suggested this. She didn't think Tucker would be amused to know that she had— yet again— visited him.

Tucker frowned. "Ghosts are nothing but the spirits of bad people. Their reason for being here is to wreak havoc. To lure people to their death."

Sam opened her mouth to argue, but thought better of it. "Thanks for the lipstick," she said, instead. "Are you sure I can have it? What about you?"

Tucker patted his cargo pants, his hand resting atop one of the pockets. "I have another one I've been carrying around ever since that night at the junkyard. You should get going." Tucker nodded his head out the window. "It's getting dark."

Sam slipped the lipstick into her jeans pocket and hopped off of Tucker's bed. As she walked out his front door into the brisk October wind, she pointed back to him. "1950's, Tucker," she said. "We're in this together, right?"

"Fine, fine," he grumbled. "I'll think about it."

She gave him a curt nod and stepped out onto the street.

The spectacular sunset turned the pavement a deep indigo and outlined the dense pine trees that surrounded Amity Park. As winter approached the days had been growing shorter and shorter. Sam yanked her jacket closer and buttoned it up. Soon it would be snowing. She wasn't looking forward to it. Riding around on her bike would prove nearly impossible.

Tucker thought that all ghosts were the spirits of evil people, but that didn't make sense. She never knew Valerie's mother before her death, but she doubted that the women had been evil enough to warrant an eternity watching over a kitchen. And what about that dog? What had the dog done to deserve being a ghost? Surely a dog couldn't have committed a crime worthy enough of eternal hell. Finding a relic would only be like putting a picture over a hole in the wall. It didn't truly solve the problem. The ghosts would always come back.

" _Boo_ ," said a playful voice right behind her, yanking her from her thoughts.

Sam whipped around.

Danny tilted his head. He looked impeccable as always, this time in a red sweater with white trim and blue jeans. The amber light from the sunset caught atop his cheeks, making it look like he was blushing. "So, did I finally succeed in scaring you?" he laughed, pulling an innocent face.

"No," Sam stated flatly. "What are you doing here?"

"Just walking by," he whistled.

"Yeah right. Were you following me?"

"Maybe," he admitted. "Don't like you walking around alone at night."

Sam faked a gasp and batted her eyelashes. "Oh gee whiz, my _hero._ I was so gosh darn _terrified_ that I'd have to walk through this big scary town all alone, with no man to protect me. Afterall, I'm just a defenseless girl. I can hardly—"

 _"Anyway,_ " he interrupted, clearly not listening. Sam could hear the _ping_ as her sarcasm bounced right off him. "I have something to show you. Take a walk with me?"

Unease hit her. Every time she had been followed, some weird stuff had happened. The dog, the detour route, the ghost of Evelyn Gray at her kitchen door… but this was the gravekeeper. He had been only ever been nice to her. Even so, Tucker's words rang through her head. Her hand drifted near her pant pocket to the ghost detector. It'd be easy. Just one tug and she'd know once and for all. But… did she really want to? Was she ready for the answer?

"Sam? Do I have something on my face?" He pawed comically at his nose.

Her lips twitched into a grin. Her hand deviated. She couldn't bring herself to be afraid of this dork. "Alright. What is it?"

He smiled, his teeth forming a dazzling crescent. "You'll find out," he promised. "Follow me." He trotted off the side of the road.

Sam hesitated for only a moment before she steeled herself, squared her shoulders, and followed him through the brush.


	12. Don't Be Cruel

.

.

〰〰〰

 **12**

Don't Be Cruel

〰〰〰

Sam whacked away a branch with the back of her hand. Ahead of her, Danny's bright sweater seemed to shine underneath the ever-darkening night sky. They hadn't spoken a word in over ten minutes. Where was he taking her? How long would they be walking? ...Where were they?

As if sensing her thoughts, he glanced back and tossed an, "Almost there," over his shoulder as he picked his way through the underbrush.

"I hate surprises. Where are we going?" Sam ground out. In the dusk it was difficult to tell where she was going, much less where she came from. Every direction looked the same.

"A place I think you'll find interesting," came the reply.

Sam felt the hairs on her scalp tense. An intense pang of doubt stemmed from somewhere in her guts. Her body nearly spun around and walked away right then and there, but his blue eyes affixed to hers and he smiled."It's okay," he promised. He pointed ahead. "See that?"

Sam closed the distance to stand at his shoulder, peering through the thickets, eyes straining to see. A faint outline of what looked like a shanty was visible through the fog. "A cabin?" she whispered. Her voice dipped low, unsure if they were suddenly treading on someone else's property.

Danny nodded. He started out towards it again.

Sam stayed behind for maybe a second before she realized that she needed him to find her way out of here. Besides, her curiosity was piqued.

The cabin was decrepit. It looked as if no one had touched it in years, decades even. Plants were in the process of reclaiming it. Most notably, part of the roof was gnawed through, leaving a gaping hole where branches had already started to worm their way inside. It was a tiny house— probably one room. At one point it had been made of different logs that had been knitted together, although the logs were now rotten and falling apart. There was two windows, one on either side of the door, cracked from the strain of the sagging roof. Brick from what had probably been a chimney lay at her feet.

Sam relaxed. Clearly no one lived here.

Danny's head peeked from around the side. "This way," he urged.

Sam picked her way through the brush around the left side of the house. She followed him around a log and into the middle of the room. "Wow," she mumbled to herself.

The interior was covered in skulls: cougar, bear, bird, wolf, and what looked like even a snake. Rusty shotguns still hung off hinges. Sam counted five. The remains of an armchair and table sat near the front door facing a brick fireplace.

Danny crossed the room in three strides and plopped into the armchair. It must have been sturdier than it looked, because it didn't even creak under his weight.

"That'll probably break," Sam warned.

He merely laughed.

"So what is this place?" she asked. Her hands drifted along the closest shotgun, knocking some dust free.

"An old hunter's cabin," he replied. He leaned back in the chair and watched her poke through various things. "Been vacant for years. No one else knows it's here."

"How'd you find it?"

"Stumbled upon it," he answered vaguely.

Sam shot him a look before moving over to a shelf where ten books sat in various stages of decay. She yanked one out by the spine. It fell apart on the floor in chunks of paper fused together through exposure. She bent down and picked up the cover, spinning it around in her hands, rubbing some dirt away from an old Amity Public Library card. "This book was last checked out in… February, 1958," she breathed. She straightened and held the card out accusingly at him. "Are you finally helping me with my report?"

He shrugged, suddenly finding the ceiling extremely interesting. A blush crept on his cheeks.

Sam tilted her head. "Why the change of heart?"

"I figured you weren't gonna listen to me and stop nosing around." He scowled. "If that's the case, I might as well help."

"Damn straight," Sam grumbled. Her finger tapped along the name which was messily scrawled next to the date. "Guess this Benjamin Skulker guy has one hell of a debt to pay." She flipped the cover around. " _A Hunter's Guide to Butchering Wild Game_ ," Sam read.

She pocketed the library card and dropped the title back to the floor. Following Danny's pensive gaze, her eyes landed upon a skull that was different than all the others. "Is that from some kind of gorilla?" she asked. A quick attempt to tug at it revealed it was nailed firmly to the wall.

"Lots of wild gorillas out here," Danny said sarcastically.

Sam yanked her hand away from it as if burned. "It's _human?_ "

"Told you you'd find this place interesting."

She gaped at him. _How come he hadn't called the police? How come he hadn't—?_

"I'm _kidding,_ Sam. I'm kidding. Calm down before your eyes bug right out of your head," he laughed, raising his palms up as he slumped back into the chair. "It's probably just a monkey of some sort."

For some reason, Sam didn't completely buy it. She eyed the skull sidelong and wiped her hand on her pants. She wondered if she could nab some DNA from it and give it to Officer Gray. She doubted it. Sam had watched enough CSI to know DNA came from tissue samples. All tissue rotted off this thing decades ago. She frowned, forced her gaze off it, and found Danny watching her with his chin in his palm and a hint of a smile on his lips, as if he could guess her train of thought.

From around them, Sam could hear the rustle of leaves as a breeze rippled through the forest. A particularly strong gust whipped through the cabin, whistling through the shattered glass windows.

"Mikey Voss, one of my partners for my history project, died," Sam blurted.

Danny's smile dropped a notch, although he looked unsurprised. "I heard. I'm sorry. Were you good friends?"

Sam shook her head. "No. I don't have many friends."

He stared at her for a long moment, eyes deep in contemplation. "Am _I_ your friend?"

Sam flushed. "Maybe," she admitted. Maybe her friend, her best friend, and maybe something more, something she had been keen on pushing aside ever since he had rejected her that night in the graveyard.

Danny leaned back, hand on his chest, mock shock on his face. "Oh _gee whiz_ ," he lilted, in mimicry of her from earlier, _"Golly_ I just can't believe it. _Me._ Having the rare honor of Samantha Manson's friendship—"

"Yeah, yeah. You done?" Sam cut, rolling her eyes.

Danny sobered. He let out a slow breathless chuckle, ducked his head to catch her gaze, and sent her a timid smile. "For what it's worth, you're my _best_ friend," he said.

Sam swallowed a lump in her throat at his brutal honesty. She didn't want to admit just how much that meant to her. Instead she toed the book lying at her feet and swiftly changed the subject. "Evelyn came by the house last night," Sam mentioned, taking in his reaction.

He froze. "Really. What did she want?"

"She wanted to know if I'd seen you around. She was looking for you." She leaned back until her shoulder blades hit the wall. "I told her I hadn't seen you. She's Mrs. Gray, isn't she? She's a ghost."

"Yes," Danny confirmed. "You didn't let her in, right?"

Sam shook her head.

"Smart," he mused. He shifted in the chair and plopped his chin in his hand, elbow to his knee, as he peered at her from across the room.

"What does she want with you?" Sam wondered.

"You don't need to worry about my wellbeing, Boots," he chuckled.

"Why not?" Sam breathed. She stuck her hand in her pocket and felt the lipstick detector, fingernail trailing along the groove of the cap.

Danny's eyes darted to her hand before shooting her a suspicious look. He straightened and leaned back a bit. "Because," he stated slowly, "I know what I'm doing. I'm a gravekeeper, remember? Ghosts don't scare me." He winked at her cheekily.

Sam felt her resolve melt. She let go of the lipstick and pulled her hand free of her pocket. Here she was, with all the means to reveal him, yet she couldn't do it. She didn't want to know, because then it would ruin whatever _this_ was between them. Call it selfish, call it stupid, but she really liked him. Liked him enough to follow him blindly into the woods without caution, enough to willingly hold out on finding the truth about him. She would rather keep on believing they had a chance.

He slowly got up from the chair as if to avoid spooking her. He didn't scare her. Not one bit.

Sam leaned back as he drew close, peering up at the dust of freckles on his cheeks. She sucked in her breath. He held this air that he might not be real.

His eyes scanned her face for a moment. "I should take you home," he uttered, although he made no move to do so.

"You should," she breathed out.

A sharp howl from what sounded like a group of dogs resounded outside. Danny pulled back, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "Let's go."

Sam silently mourned the moment as she picked her way out from the ruins of the hunting cabin. She drew close to his side as he led the way, noting that they were leaving a different way than they came. From all around them the forest was alive with noise. She could hear the yipping of dogs and the rustle of leaves. Dark movements kept catching the corner of her eye, yet when she looked she saw nothing but shadows.

A branch snapped.

She turned to see a disfigured face staring back, then it was gone, leaving only an imprint behind. She blinked several times. It could have almost been mistaken for another shadow, had it not been so defined. She remembered a pulpy burned face, jaw missing, eyes melted shut.

"Stick close," Danny mentioned unnecessarily.

"What _was_ that?" she whispered, horrified.

"Ghosts," he stated. "This forest is full of them."

Sam shot him a look. "You don't seem too concerned," she noted. He was still picking his way through the woods at his own leisure. She relaxed a touch. If he wasn't freaking out, why should she?

"I told you. I know what I'm doing. As long as you know the way, you can't be tricked." He paused and shot her a glance. "You can't let them taste fear."

"What happens when you do?"

"Then you're no longer interesting enough to let live," he stated with such knowing and finality that Sam shivered. She pulled her coat closer and forced away the unease. No fear. Fine. She could do that. She was Samantha friggin' Manson. She ate fear for breakfast.

He seemed to sense her steel and grinned. "Good."

As they started walking again, pale faces flicked out from behind trees. Twisted children's faces. Some were blind, others had birthmarks of puckered skin that ran like a knife wound across their entire face. Lips were missing, teeth were crooked or gone, heads were beaten in. They all looked starved and mad. Each time one made eye contact they skittered back and disappeared. Sam knew deep down these were her stalkers. That breathy giggle was unmistakable. These were the things that had tried to lead her into the woods, that had conjured up the dog, that had probably planted the same lure that had befallen Mikey. Their eyeballs hovered in the dark, trained on Sam and Danny as they moved through the forest, following no particular path.

Wind brushed past her, carrying along whisperings.

 _"...I know he's a wolf, said Riding Hood…"_

 _"...Are you lost?..."_

Sam jumped as someone brushed her cheek.

 _"...Follow us. We know the way..."_

A hand tugged her own. She ripped it away and held it to her chest, stumbling until she nearly clipped Danny's shoulder.

 _"...So pretty. Come with us. We'll protect you…"_

 _"...He's bad luck…"_

 _"...suicide on the corner of Truth and…"_

She could feel them all encroaching upon them. The faces grew closer and closer until they were merely feet away.

 _"...You're going the wrong way!..."_

 _"...Listen!..."_

 _"...He's gonna—"_

The gravekeeper came to a sudden halt in front of her and bristled. The forest darkened at the edges, the moon dimmed. His lips drew back as he bared his teeth. _"Back!"_

Or at least, that's what Sam interpreted it as. It was more of a bark from the back of his throat. Either way, the order was clear and punched Sam in the chest like the crack of a whip. Her feet took a step back without her permission.

The children scattered. The forest went still. A soft breeze rustled the branches overhead. From somewhere in the distance, a horn honked.

He let out a slow breath, rolled his shoulders, then kept moving.

Sam stayed behind for only a second before she lurched forward to join him. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Each time she formed a question it died on her tongue. What was that? What had he done? Why had they obeyed him? Why had _she_ obeyed him? She bit her lip and kept her questions to herself.

After only a few more minutes they popped out of the woods and found themselves in a backyard. The grass was manicured and familiar. Sam frowned, seeing the house, realizing with a flood of relief— "We're home!"

He shot her an amused look. "Duh. Where else?"

She scowled. "Shut up. I just didn't know you could go through the woods and end up so close to school. What a shortcut."

His gaze grew serious, "Don't go back in there without me. Not even during the day."

"Wasn't planning on it." Sam shuddered. She had seen enough mutilated kids for a lifetime. The forest was definitely a place to avoid, especially at night. _Although…._ her thoughts slowly drifted back to the cabin. To the skull. She wondered just how far away it was from her house. Not far. Although she hadn't been paying attention to which direction they had walked from...

Her face must have given her away. Either that, or Danny sensed her meandering train of thought, and which way it was headed. He crossed his arms. " _Don't_."

She felt it in her chest. It wasn't as powerful, but he was trying to order her like he had ordered those kids, which only made her pissed. She glared and pointed a finger at him. "Don't try that on me," she warned caustically.

He blinked, surprised.

"Whatever that is, it won't work on me," she continued.

He raised his hands palm up in surrender and switched tactics. "Okay, okay. Please don't go back in there without telling me. _Please?"_ His enormous bluest-of-blue eyes grew watery and pleading.

"Alright," Sam stated.

Placated, he nodded and took a step back. "Night, then," he murmured.

"Night." Sam watched as he walked straight into the treeline. She swore the yard was a little less misty without him there, but maybe it was just her imagination.

Sam stood alone for some time and couldn't help but feel sad. She didn't want him to go. Already, she missed him. Maybe next time he could come inside, up to her room, and they could hang out and talk and listen to music or watch a movie or… whatever _normal_ teenagers did.

She snorted to herself as she spun and walked through the grass towards the kitchen door. Normal teenage stuff was beyond her.

She unlocked the back door and slipped inside, locking it behind her. She only realized she had a stupid dreamy grin on her face when it was wiped off, as her mother rounded the corner brandishing a bat and a glass of wine.

"Samantha Jean!" her mother screeched. Some wine sloshed out of her glass and dribbled to the floor. "Where have you _been?_ "

"Out." Sam shrugged.

"Out? OUT?" Pamela's face contorted. "I've been calling you all night. Do you know what _time_ it is?"

"Like, 7:30?" Sam guessed, although she wasn't so sure. Time had a tendency to slip away when she was with the gravekeeper. The sunset had been only about an hour ago. She was sure of that.

"It's 11:00! Where have you been?!" Her mother dropped the bat with a clunk and took a long sip of her wine. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, tightly, as if Sam was giving her some kind of stroke. "You know what? Don't tell me. I can't deal with this right now. We'll talk in the morning," she muttered, almost to herself.

Sam blinked in surprise. The microwave clock said it was, indeed, 11:03pm. How—? She looked at her mother, at her flushed face and unkempt hair. "Are you drunk?" she asked, incredulously.

"Go to your room." Pamela picked the bat back up and pointed it at her. " _Now._ "

Sam eyed it. "Gladly."

Knowing she was already pushing her luck, Sam sidled up the staircase and made for her room. She shut the door and strode over to her desk, sitting down with a decisive _thud_.

Her thoughts churned. She wasn't tired at all. With the intent to do some research, she booted up her computer and dug her hand into her pocket, yanking out the library card and the lipstick container. She set them both down on her desk, pulled up Google, and typed in "Benjamin Skulker".

Nothing useful. Only a handful of Norwegian-speaking Twitter users named Benjamin, a speech by 23rd President Benjamin Harrison, and a fan page for a pug named Skulker which was run by her owner, Benjamin Prewett.

Using the Library of Congress database, she ran a search for Benjamin Skulker again, between 1950 and 1965. Again, nothing of use. Of course. Sam sighed and yanked a piece of paper from her notebook. With a pen she wrote down, in purple ink:

Circus accident, 11 dead, 1964

Mayor Masters, served 1960 - 1964

Benjamin Skulker, late library book, 1958

Benjamin Skulker, creepy hunter's cabin, 1950's

Amity renamed Amity Park, 1966

She tacked the paper up on the wall, punching right through the wallpaper and glared at it. All she knew about Amity Park fit on five measly lines. Her eyes drifted and she turned back to her computer, plotting ' _Masters, Amity Park'_ into the search engine.

It spat back thousands of results.

"What," she breathed, clicking on a website labelled _The Amityville Horror Hunt_. The page was black with animated little bats that flapped in a loop. Sam resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Old black and white photos of the mansion adorned the top of the page, along with the line, in dripping neon green letters: _The Horror Hunt is delighted to introduce to you Amity Park's most notorious ghosts at 7pm every weeknight. Something unexplainable happens on every Horror Hunt. Have an unearthly amount of fun touring local haunts such as the chilling 'No Mercy' hospital and infamous Victorian villa of eccentric billionaire Vladimir Masters. Tickets are $20 dollars per person. Must be 16+ years old. No children allowed._

"Interesting." Sam grinned, scribbling the name _Vladimir_ next to _Masters_ on her list. With a few taps she bought a ticket for the Monday night tour, leaned back in her chair, and cracked her knuckles in satisfaction.

* * *

—The Cincinnati Star—

The Cincinnati Star

Sunday, August 19th, 1962

AMITY OH— Part-time gas attendant and hobbyist hunter Benjamin Skulker was taken into custody by the Amity PD late last night as a suspect in the disappearance of a Cincinnati teen.

The fifteen-year-old was last spotted at Lucky Strike gas station in Amity, where the suspect works. Skulker (39) has been previously convicted of physical assault and animal cruelty in connection to his brief occupation as an animal care specialist for the Booker & Banker Traveling Circus. This arrest follows an intensive search for Daniel Fenton, who has been missing since August 12th. Police have reason to believe he was taken against his will and may be in danger.

Daniel is a white male, standing around 5'' 11' and weighing about 130 lbs. Black hair, blue eyes. He has freckles and a crescent-shaped scar on the back of his right hand. He was last seen Sunday August 12th at 4:45pm. There is a $50,000 dollar reward for any information that aids in his return.

If anyone has any information regarding the whereabouts of Daniel Fenton, please call the Amity PD sheriff: 513 329 4927, or the Amity PD tip line: 1 513 329 4922.

* * *

 _fin Part I: Shadow People_


	13. I Hear You Knocking

.

* * *

 **PART II: MURPHY'S LAW**

* * *

 **13**

I Hear You Knocking

〰〰〰

Sam felt as if 'it' was about to happen. 'It' manifested as the dreadful, looming feeling that something important was approaching.

She had this feeling moments before a semi collided with her car, sending it pinwheeling violently across a median in a spray of twisted metal and shattered glass. She had felt 'it' a few seconds before she had ripped out a girl's earring in a fit of rage. Most recently, she had felt 'it' before an imaginary dog had jumped out of a bush and killed a woman.

She was feeling 'it' now, as her mother and her drove towards Sycamore Heights— a sprawling, resort-like assisted living facility where her grandmother resided.

Sam kept her headphones on full blast and her eyes glued resolutely out the car window, ignoring her mother for the entire drive. They had been sidestepping each other ever since what happened last night. Her, coming home late and not answering her phone; her mother, with one too many glasses of red wine. So far her mother hadn't brought it up, but Sam knew it was only a matter of time. Her mother hadn't figured out the right punishment.

Sam tore her way out of those thoughts as a building with twinkling lights appeared ahead. It was nestled within a thick forest which, combined with the raw wood siding and the amber lanterns that dotted the driveway, made it feel like some sort of holiday getaway. The main building resembled a log cabin. It's roof jutted out to form a covered carport like a hotel lobby. On either side of the main building were long rows of apartments. Each door had little white cartoon ghosts and skulls.

Sam's thoughts drifted to the skull in the hunter's cabin. They had been doing that all day. She shook her head and followed her mother into the lobby.

In Sam's opinion, the inside was just as revolting. It looked like a Halloween sprite had vomited up black and orange glitter everywhere. As Sam and her mother entered, their movement triggered an animated witch with a pointed black hat, bobbing her head up and down, cackling, _"I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog too!"_

"You go ahead," Pamela said. She adjusted her sunglasses, no doubt hungover from last night. "I need to have a word with someone about next month's payment. You remember which apartment, right? 205B."

Any other time and Sam would have waited until her mother could go with her— her grandmother made her uncomfortable— but she had some questions better asked without Pamela. She took off out of the main lobby and down one of the foyers, went up to the second floor, and followed the signs until she found 205B. It was the only door without decor.

Sam knocked.

"It ain't time yet!" came a loud reply, followed by what sounded like something whacking drywall.

"It's Sam," she said awkwardly, leaning towards the door in hopes her voice would carry.

"What? I can't hear— Oh— come _in_ already," the voice griped.

Sam tested the doorknob and found it wasn't locked. Inside was dark, made up of a living room with an attached kitchen and a hallway that had two doors— one to a bathroom, one to a bedroom. It was musty and smelled of lavender Febreze. Deep maroon curtains blocked sunlight. Underneath Sam's boots lay plushy non-offensive beige carpeting, and equally bland plushy furniture marked each corner of the small living room. Only one stood out from the rest— a deep emerald velvet armchair with regal mahogany legs where, shrouded in a black crochet shawl, a tiny old woman with a bun of white hair sat perched like some sort of absurd crow.

"Don't just stand there. Close the door. You're letting light in," the crow complained.

Sam shut the door with the back of her heel and walked down the hallway. "Hi, Grandma," she greeted.

Ida Mendel peered through inch-thick lenses and squinted. Sam could see the gears twirling in her head, before she gave a huge smile. The force of her grin wrinkled her face unrecognizable. "Sammy. What a surprise. How nice of you to come visit your only _Bubbe._ "

Sam winced at the barb. Her grandmother was known for her wit, sharp tongue, and tendencies to call you out. "How are you?"

"Peachy." She craned her neck around, which looked difficult as she had a permanent hunch. "Where's your mother?" she asked after a second.

Sam tapped her fingertips along the back of the couch. "She had to talk to someone about paperwork or something."

Her grandmother's eyes weren't clouded with age. They were bright, with a mischievous spark that made Sam wary. "Sit, why don't you." Her wrinkled hand waved at the adjacent couch. "Tell me things. What are young people into nowadays?"

Sam noted the black nail polish and the overabundance of rings. Ida had at least two rings per finger. All different types. Some plain silver, some giant rectangular slabs of jade set in gold. On her right hand sat a gold jewish star; on her left pointer finger a silver crocodile. Sam walked around the end of the couch and sat.

"Last time I saw you, you were about to move into that house and start school," Ida continued.

A shrug. "School's fine. The house is…" She stopped herself. The house was alive. Each night it creaked and rocked as if stretching. More and more often Sam woke to the sound of slamming doors, or her bedroom window wide open. She had been living there only a few months and already knew it was something _else_ entirely. "...It's a house," she finished.

Ida hummed with a look that said she knew Sam was hiding something, but didn't press it. "So who's the lucky boy? Or girl?"

Blood burned Sam's cheeks. "There isn't a boy," she denied. "Or a girl," she tacked on hastily.

"Honey, you usually walk around like you've got superglue on the bottom of those boots and your own personal raincloud to keep you company. These past two years you've barely said one word to me, much less come visit. But here you are, all bright eyed and full of vowels." Ida leaned forward conspiratorially and raised a heavily penciled eyebrow. "Give me some credit, honey. I'm old, not senile."

"We're friends," Sam muttered. She kicked her boots out and looked at the bottoms of them, half expecting to find evidence of glue. There was only dirt.

Ida merely nodded a few times, then stared at her. "So?"

"So, what?"

"Why are you here? I know it isn't to swoon at my beauty."

Sam couldn't help but smile as she peered around at the dark curtains, the velvet chair, the black shawl, the no-bullshit coarseness and the too-sharp lavender eyes. Her and Ida were one in the same. They were too alike. To everyone else Sam was unreadable, yet to Ida she was transparent. "I wanted to talk about your childhood," Sam said.

"My childhood?"

"It's for a report," Sam continued. "For school."

Ida barked a laugh. " _Heavens._ Am I finally at the age where kids interview me for history class?" she asked, her eyes scrunching up in mirth. "Alright, fine. Shoot."

"I'm doing a report about what Amity Park was like in the 50's, and how it pertains to American History," Sam explained. "You grew up here, right?"

"Born and raised. But I'll be barely any help. I was born in—" With a waggling a finger and a twinkle in her eye, Ida caught herself. "Let's just say I was very young during the 50's."

"Do you remember anything about the town?" Sam asked.

"That was so long ago," Ida said in a faraway voice. Eyes dimmed, she glanced out the window. "I remember the fireflies. This town had a bunch of fireflies. There's not so many anymore, some years back something wiped 'em out, probably the drought, but I remember them in the summertime."

Sam dug in her backpack and pulled out a pad and a pencil. While she sketched a firefly in the corner, she asked, "Do you remember if anything big happened? Anything noteworthy?"

Ida merely shook her head. "I wish I could help you out. As you get older, your memory only tells you what you want to hear. Hell, this town was so small back then about the most noteworthy thing was the summer Mac Driscal got first place in the State Fair for his ugly overgrown gourds. The old coot never let anyone forget."

Sam wrote _Mac Driscal—Gourds_. "Do you remember who was mayor back then?" she probed.

Ida shrugged.

Did her grandmother remember anything important at all, or _was_ there anything important to remember? "Ever heard of Vladimir Masters?" she asked hopefully.

Ida blinked, startled. "Yes. Yes I have. He was the mayor when I was a senior in high school. Rich. Mysterious. Lived in that big mansion over on Pine. I remember he had long white hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was a doctor of some kind, I think. A lot of the girls in my class had a crush on him," Ida rolled her eyes a little and made a gagging motion. "All they cared about was finding a rich husband, getting a white picket fence, and popping out two kids."

Sam refrained from mentioning that that was exactly what Ida had done. Instead she scribbled some notes. Rich. Doctor. White hair. None of these attributes surprised her. Someone with the name Vladimir Masters had to own an extensive vodka collection and an Ivy League doctorate degree. She paused and considered her grandma. "How come you remember him so well?" she wondered aloud. After all, Ida had been evasive on everything else until this point.

"Oh, I remember everything about that summer _vividly_ ," Ida stated flatly. Her eyes darkened, grew distant, and flicked away to the window; her hands tightened around her shawl. "Anyone that lived here during the summer of '62 remembers. Some things stick with you. But your report is on the 50's. Won't do any good."

Sam's stomach flopped and writhed. There was something in her grandmother's look that told her whatever this was was serious. This could be the break she had been looking for. "Project aside, what happened?" she asked, fighting to keep the excitement from her voice.

Ida sighed a slow steady sigh. "That was the summer that boy went missing." Adjusting her glasses, she turned her attention back to Sam. "White kid, from a nice family. Everyone tore Amity apart looking for him. It really shook everyone up, that a kid could go missing without a trace in this town where everyone knew everyone. I remember the father coming to our house looking for him. The look on his face..." Ida shuddered. "Desperation is an ugly thing, Sammy. It changes people, and not for the better."

Ice spread through Sam's veins.

Ida adjusted her shawl and dusted off a few white hairs with a sniff. "Anyway, once they started digging around they found out he wasn't the only one missing. Lots of kids were missing, from as far back as '53. Only, no one ever bothered to notice, 'cause they were all kids with no families. Orphans." Ida darted a look at Sam for a second. "And black."

"1953?" Sam echoed, well aware of the righteous anger in her tone. "How did nobody notice until almost a decade later?"

"Try to understand, Sam. I'm not saying it's right, but things were different back then. In a worse way. One white boy went missing and the entire town went into an uproar, but a bunch of black kids went missing right under everyone's noses and no one says a word..." Ida tutted softly and slowly unwound herself from her chair. Grabbing her ebony cane, she took off unsteadily for the kitchen. "This is some heavy stuff. You want tea?"

"Uh— no thank you," Sam mumbled. She watched her grandmother move with the speed of a tortoise towards her kitchen just when they were getting to the good stuff. Unsure of how much more time she had alone with her grandmother before her mom showed up, Sam's eyes darted towards the door. Sam leaned back in her chair and let out a slow breath, trying to channel whatever small amounts of patience she had.

From behind her, a teacup clattered and water began to hiss in a kettle.

Sam glanced down at her scribbled note taking. Finally. Something _significant._

Ida shuffled back to her chair. She slowly eased her way into it, cradling her teacup to her chest. Steam fogged her glasses as she took a small sip. "Now. Where were we?"

"Missing kids," Sam prompted.

"Right." A nod. "So, after people found out about the other missing kids, naturally, everyone thought we had some sort of serial killer out and about. My parents never let me out of their sight that year. I always had to walk with a friend to school and back. I had to call to check in with them if I went over to someone else's house. Everyone was on edge."

Sam leaned forward in her chair. "Then what?"

Her grandmother took a sip of her tea. "Nothing."

"... _What?"_ Sam frowned.

"Never found who did it, never found the bodies, and the kidnappings stopped." Ida pointed a finger at Sam. "I tell you what, this town has been weird ever since. A string of bad luck. First the draught, then the crops died, the forest fires, that circus burning down, the suicides... It's no wonder people started to move away."

A question stirred and burned within her. "The missing boy. What was his name?"

Ida opened her mouth, paused, then closed it. She leaned back in her chair and eyed Sam appraisingly. "Oh, some common name. I don't know. It was so long ago... I can't recall," she said, lip twitching into a coy smile. "I'm sure I'll remember sometime next week. Probably on Wednesday, after 7pm checkers. Guess you'll just have to come back and visit me."

With a wink, Ida went back to sipping her tea.

.

.

Two hours later, Sam was pacing the upstairs hallway of her house.

Missing children, a serial killer, and a coverup... Sam smirked. Was this 'it'? _Finally_! She was _getting_ somewhere. Her nose itched that this was something big.

Her first instinct was to call Tucker and tell him everything— about the kids, about the cabin in the woods, about the—the _skull._ Sam froze mid-stride. What if that skull _was_ human? Shouldn't she do something? Tell someone? It could be one of those missing kids. Guilt gnawed through her. She grabbed her phone to call Tucker, then paused. Tucker would ask her how she had found the cabin, she would have to tell him about Danny, and he would get mad. When Danny had become more important than Tucker's friendship she didn't know. He had just crept into her life when she hadn't been looking and made a little nest.

Sam slipped her phone back in her pocket. No. She wouldn't tell Tucker. Not yet anyway. It wasn't time. She had a feeling Tucker wouldn't understand.

With a shake of her head, Sam began pacing again.

What else? She should call the police. But, after everything that had happened with the dog… would they take her seriously? And if they did, she was sending them deep into the woods— a place Danny had explicitly warned her was dangerous.

What were her other options? She could go into the woods and retrieve it herself, but she didn't know the way and she would have to take it to the police to run analysis on it anyway. Besides, if she walked into the station with a human skull and dropped it on Officer Gray's desk, he'd think _she_ had something to do with it. Or, barring that, he'd ask her where she found it, and he'd go into the woods anyway to search for more evidence.

She could keep her lips shut and let it rot there in the forest until it turned to dust… Never find out if it was a gorilla… never find out if it was one of those missing kids…

No. Her dark hair fluttered as she shook her head, hard. The not knowing was unacceptable. She couldn't sit around and do nothing. Couldn't pretend she hadn't seen that skull.

"God _dammit,_ " Sam groaned aloud. She strode down the hallway into her room. Fine. She'd go to the police. The thought of never knowing if that skull was real or not was unbearable. She snatched her jacket off the back of her chair and slung it on, wound a scarf around her neck, and made for the stairs. She had one hand on the doorknob when a voice rang out behind her.

"Get _back_ here."

Sam screeched to a halt and whirled around. "Mom," she greeted. She tried to arrange her face into something innocent. Oh who was she kidding? That was a lost cause.

Pamela scowled at her and crossed her arms. _"Where_ do you think you're going?"

"Wanted to go for a walk. Get some fresh air."

"Not so fast," her mother growled. "We need to have a little chat about last night."

Sam shut the door and rolled her eyes where her mother couldn't see. With a sigh, she took her hand off the door handle and spun back around. "Okay," she said tiredly. "Let's chat."

"You're lucky you're not grounded until next year, young lady," Pamela snapped.

Sam stared at her for a beat. The idea of her mother having any control over her behavior was downright hilarious. It took all of her willpower to keep a straight face. "Ground me, then. I'll just sneak out while you're passed out _drunk,_ " Sam countered.

Pamela froze and sucked in a quick breath. Uncertainty flashed across her features.

Sam winced. It had been a low blow and she knew it. Her gaze darted to the floor, ashamed.

"I— I need to know where you are," Pamela forced out. "I'm your mother. Regardless of what you believe, I love you and I worry about you." Her voice cracked and Sam felt lower than a piece of shit. "All the time, I worry."

Her mother's eyes had taken a glassy look that could only mean she was two seconds away from crying, which was _not_ good. Sam edged away and kicked at the entry rug. Grinding her teeth, Sam realized— with a flash of irritation— that Pamela's guilt trip was actually working. "Look, I'm sorry I came home late and didn't answer my phone," Sam murmured. "I was hanging out with a friend and lost track of time. I'll pay more attention."

Her mother scanned her face. "Your father and I are glad you're going out and making new friends. That you're showing interest in something, even you won't tell us what it is. It's better than… well… before..." Pamela trailed off, struggling fruitlessly.

This was the sticking point; the reason why she was so angry with her mother all the time. "Why can't you talk about it like a normal person?" Sam burst out. "It's like you don't want to acknowledge what happened. It drives me _crazy._ Just _say_ it. Joy Nguyen. She's dead and I loved her." Sam stared defiantly at her mother, daring her to comment. "Say her name," she demanded.

"Sam, that's not fair." Taking a step forward, Pamela raised a hand like she wanted to run it through her hair, but paused and thought better of it. "I don't like dwelling on it the way you do."

Anger bled out until she felt hollow. "Say her name." This time a whisper.

Her mother hesitated and Sam turned her back, disgusted.

"I— I love you _so_ much, Sam. You know that right?" Pamela pleaded.

Sam paused, one hand on the doorway. " _Whatever,_ " she scathed, and left.

.

.

—Samantha Manson, 1950's History Paper (Rough Draft)—

The 1950's time period was dominated by fear of communism. The "Red Scare" —what historians use to describe this fear— heavily influenced the politics and propaganda of the era. To Americans, communism was in direct opposition to capitalism and therefore evil.

On October 4th 1957, Soviet Russia launched the Sputnik 1 satellite, shattering the notion that America was the most technologically advanced nation (Zohair, 10). Not one to come in second, the United States launched NASA in 1958 in direct response (Clemmons, 49). The frenzied Space Race began. The American public became swept up in the blind chase to win over Russian Totalitarianism, and seduced by the thought of space travel.

The Space Race is attributed to America's desire to exert technological superiority. Basically, we wanted Stalin to take communism and stick it up his ass. The Cold War was more of a political tactic than anything else. It's like the government wanted everyone looking up at the moon instead of taking a look around at how shitty minorities were being treated. Segregation was still a thing. And let's not forget sexism. Let me quote an advertisement: "Men are better than women! Indoors, women are useful— even pleasant. On a mountain they are something of a drag. So don't go hauling them up a cliff to show off your new Drummond climbing sweaters! (Drummond)" This is an actual advertisement from 1957. I bet a panel of probably at least ten different white misogynistic dicks looked at this, took a puff of a cigarette (because people were in denial back then that tobacco causes lung cancer), took a swig of bourbon (because people back then were functioning alcoholics), and said, "Perfect. Yes. This ad is perfect—


	14. Let Me In

.

〰〰〰

 **14**

Let Me In

〰〰〰

Sam was dismayed at the fact that she was a regular at the Amity Park Police Department. It was the same as last time. Same uncomfortable rows of waiting chairs, same distant sound of printers printing, same buzzing energy-efficient fluorescent lights.

She stood awkwardly in the lobby, unsure of who to talk to or where to go now that she wasn't being brought here against her will. For some reason she felt guilty just standing here.

"Can I help you?" a voice rang out.

Sam glanced up at a female officer— a stately woman in her mid thirties with brown hair pulled back in a severe bun, perfect posture, and an overly starched uniform. "Uh, I need to meet with Officer Gray," Sam said.

Maybe this was a bad idea. The skull could very well be a gorilla or a monkey or whatever else Danny said. She didn't even know if it was human. If it wasn't, she would be sending Officer Gray on a wild goose chase, right into the heart of a haunted forest... But she couldn't get it out of her thoughts. It _meant_ something. She had a strong suspicion Danny wouldn't have shown it to her if it hadn't.

The officer tilted her head and eyed her up and down with interest. This was a tiny rural police station. It probably wasn't very often a teenage punk meandered in on their own volition. "Maybe I can help you?"

"I have a—" — _What do you call it?_ — "a _tip._ "

With an intrigued gleam in her eye, the woman gestured behind her towards the cubicles. "Okay… You can follow me and we can discuss—"

"I'll only talk to him."

The lady raised an eyebrow. "Okay… Take a seat and I'll go let him know. What's your name?"

"Samantha Manson." Sam kicked out her feet and gazed down at her boots, sitting in the same chair she waited for her mother in only a few weeks prior. This was the right thing to do… right? Not so sure anymore, Sam oozed a bit further down in the seat, nose stuck in her scarf.

Time stretched. Ten minutes passed. Her knee bobbed up and down impatiently. Just when she was about to change her mind, Officer Gray showed up. His mustache looked even more aggressive than she remembered and his uniform was pressed in a way that suggested he ironed it every morning. Despite the crisp uniform, he had bags under his eyes, as if he hadn't been sleeping well.

"Ms. Manson. We meet again. Follow me."

Sam got up and slung her purse over her shoulder, following Gray through the maze of cubicles.

Officer Gray yanked open a glass door that had _Chief Inspector, Damon Gray_ etched into it. Inside was a small office with a heavy-looking walnut desk covered in unorganized papers, an older PC computer, two plastic chairs, and a black leather office chair. Light filtered through the window between cheap plastic venetian blinds with slats bent at odd angles from overuse.

Sam took a seat in one of the plastic chairs as Gray settled behind his desk. Her gaze traveled to a framed photograph. Him and his wife— Evelyn, Sam recognized— sitting on a couch. In between the two of them sat a pre-teen Valerie. They were all looking up at the camera, posed, smiling. In the background twinkled a Christmas tree. A bundle of red and white striped wrapping paper sat in Valerie's lap as she held up a professional hair straightener. Sam thought she looked like a completely different person with that big toothy grin.

Officer Gray cleared his throat and Sam looked up. "Officer Ramon said you had a tip for me?" he prompted.

"Yeah." She placed her hands in her lap. "The other night I was…" Sam struggled. She hadn't thought very far ahead about how to describe how she found the cabin without sounding like a loon. With a wince, she finished, "...taking a walk through the woods behind my house."

At mention of the mansion, Damon's face paled a notch. He fished around on his desk for a blank piece of paper. Finding none, he grabbed and flipped over a random piece of paper to write on the backside. He uncapped a pen. "Why?" he asked.

Sam thought of Danny, then of the possibility that he was a ghost, and decided to keep him out of it. "Wanted to take a walk. Get in touch with nature. Anyways, I found something that could be important. An old log cabin. No one's lived there in decades. Inside there was a lot of stuff. Old stuff. Like rifles and animal skulls. One skull looked different from the others. More human-like. It could be a monkey or something, but just in case, you know, it isn't…"

Officer Gray stiffened. The grip on his pen tightened and he stopped writing. He eyed her suspiciously. After a moment of consideration, he asked, "Where's this cabin?"

Sam tried to recall the path. She had been pretty close to Tucker's house when they walked off the side of the road. They had trudged through the forest for a while, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes? Time was funny around Danny, so she couldn't be sure. What she _was_ sure of was there had been no path. The walk had felt like forever because she climbed over and under things, wrestling her way through thick underbrush. Although, she remembered certain landmarks. "It's directly south from my house. There's a really big clearing. The cabin is past that and to the left of a downed tree."

Gray wrote that down. "How has this cabin been sitting there and no one's discovered it?"

"It's not on any path and it's pretty deep in the woods," Sam admitted. "Besides, I'm guessing no one has really been back there in a while. The house has been vacant, ever since…" Her gaze flashed to the picture, to Evelyn's face. "Ever since your family moved out."

"Uh- _huh_ ," Gray said, disbelief sparking in his eyes. He didn't buy her story. Sam could practically hear his thoughts. As a detective, it was natural for him to be distrustful. He was probably thinking something around the lines of: _On a whim, this girl decides to walk into the deepest, darkest, densest, part of the woods for a leisurely nighttime stroll? Doesn't add up. Someone must have shown her; someone who knew the woods well, who knew the cabin was there..._

.

.

Sam sat in a chair, alone, in a sparsely furnished room. She recognized it as the mansion's study. Although it was darker, there were deep violet curtains draped across the windows, and the enchanting sound of Duke Ellington swirled in the air. A lime green light flashed over and over, harshly. Directly across from her was a bookshelf. Underneath her palms lay chiseled wolf heads.

"You're running out of time," said a girl in a red dress. Her long dark ponytail bounced as she crossed the room in three bounding strides before sitting atop a desk, face round and youthful, maybe thirteen.

A nagging feeling tugged incessantly in Sam's brain. This girl looked _so_ much like someone she knew.

"He's almost here," the girl warned.

"Who?" Sam asked.

"Not that it's any of my business," the girl continued, as if she hadn't heard, teenage petulance bleeding into her tone. "It's not like he'd stay. It's too quiet where he's from. Too many fishes. Trout." Getting up from the desk, she spun across the carpet in lazy semi-graceful twirls. Her ponytail spiralled out behind her in soft ringlets; her red skirt billowed, heels digging in as she danced across the room, humming, eyes shut.

Sam watched for ages and thought she was very beautiful and that jazz music was also very beautiful.

The girl eventually danced her way back to the desk and slowed, bending over deliberately, pulling up a loose floorboard to reveal a hidden compartment containing a brass lever and— with her light blue eyes locked with Sam's— shot the other a slow one-eyed wink and pulled.

The bookshelf trembled and popped. It swung outward to reveal a dark tunnel and a set of descending stone stairs. A man without a head walked out of the opening, accompanied by a boy.

"Doesn't my cousin look just like me?" the girl asked.

Sam gazed at the boy as he crossed the room. Drawing closer, she could see the freckles on his cheeks, his dark hair and blue eyes, the gentle curving slope of his nose and had to admit that, yes, they looked _identical._

"Who are you?" Sam asked, although she thought she already knew.

He bent at the waist until his face was near, lips brushing hers in a gentle kiss. Cool mint danced across her mouth. Duke Ellington erupted— a galloping, cajoling commotion of trumpets. The girl took to dancing again. The man without a head somehow watched from the opening behind the trick door.

As the fanfare sped towards it's finale, the boy tilted his head, his cheek to her cheek, and whispered a name in her ear—

—Sam jolted upright, nearly vaulting from her bed. Jazz rang distantly in her ears. Throwing back her covers, Sam scrambled for her desk and grabbed a pen. She wrote _Daniel James_ and paused. She wrote _Jazz_. Again, she paused. Her dream melted away like heated wax. She blinked furiously, but couldn't remember anything except that it had been important.

.

.

On Wednesday afternoon, Sam found herself in Penelope Spectra's office, spending her hour long counselling session pondering if it was possible to cause spontaneous combustion through the heat of her gaze, if only she glared hard enough.

"So, Samantha… How have you been sleeping? Any nightmares?" Spectra stared at her through her tacky cat-eye glasses. Her tone made Sam's teeth rattle. "Do you want to talk about Mikey's death?" Spectra asked pleasantly.

 _No,_ Sam thought. She was done talking about Mikey's supposed 'suicide'. She was over sitting around lamenting his death. What Mikey needed was for someone to stop his killer— stop the _ghosts_ — before it happened to someone else.

"I know you were friends," Spectra continued, as if Sam had answered.

 _We weren't friends,_ Sam thought. She had barely known him. She turned her head away pointedly, teeth grinding.

"Not feeling like talking today?"

This was her third session with Penelope Spectra. Sam had given up on cooperation after figuring out the more she talked, the angrier she became. Instead, Sam zeroed in on a browning cactus, sympathizing. Poor thing never had a chance. Spectra delighted in sucking all the light from this room.

"How is your relationship with your parents?" Spectra probed. "Last time I spoke with your mother she seemed _very_ concerned about you."

Sam said nothing. Not for the first time, her thoughts wandered longingly to the other shrink— the one that had given her a business card: Doctor Matthews. Her stony expression softened as she remembered that feeling of security and warmth. Even sitting with Matthews for ten minutes… it had felt like being swaddled in a baby blanket. Maybe she should call her... That business card was still in her wallet...

"—you refuse to open up," Spectra was saying.

Sam fantasized about shoving that cactus down Spectra's throat. Maybe that'd shut her up.

"If you keep pushing away people that care about you—"

The bell rang. Thank _God._ Sam leapt out of the chair and slung her backpack over one shoulder, breaking for the door.

" _Samantha,_ " Spectra called.

Sam paused, hand on the door handle.

"You might not see it, but you need help."

Sam rolled her eyes, shoved the door open with her shoulder, and took off down the hallway. Slinking into the crowd, she kept her head down. "Need help, _please._ As if you could help. You can't even keep a cactus alive," she hissed darkly under her breath. As she turned the corner she ran straight into Tucker.

"Whoah!" He grappled for his books, catching them. "You seem... happy?" He chuckled nervously.

"Spectra," Sam muttered with a shake of her head. "Just wasted an hour of my life. I doubt that woman is even a professional therapist." If she was, she was the worst therapist Sam had encountered, and Sam had seen a _lot_ of therapists.

Tucker grinned and leaned in. "I could run a background check. Research her credentials."

Sam didn't doubt his ability or gumption. Turned out Tucker was quite the digital anarchist. She liked that part of him. Once she got past the bright patterned sweaters and overwhelming optimism, she had to admit… he was growing on her. "Nah. Not worth it," she sighed, walking down the hallway.

Tucker fell in line as they moved towards US History. "So, what happened this weekend? I thought you were gonna go see your grandma."

The cabin had happened. And the skull. Sam pursed her lips and told him neither. "I did. She told me some pretty interesting stuff." Her lips curved into a smirk.

Tucker grabbed her arm, pulling her away from most of the students until they were huddled against a stretch of lockers. "What'd you find out?" he whispered.

Sam took off her backpack and fished around. The Horror Hunt ticket for tonight peeked out of one of the pockets. She stuffed it back in, pulling her notebook out instead. "Summer of 1962 a boy goes missing. He was never found. Then, the police found out that more kids went missing as far back as 1953. My grandmother said that everyone thought they had a serial killer in their midst."

With wide eyes, Tucker grabbed the notebook and flipped through it. He pushed his glasses up further on the bridge of his nose as he scanned her notes hungrily. "Missing kids. _Creepy._ So how come no one missed them for, like, ten years? Wouldn't someone have noticed they were gone?"

Sam tapped at a scribbled line in the notebook. "They were all orphans. Bastard children with no homes and no one to miss them. And all black." She winced after she said it and kicked herself for not handling that more delicately.

"Holy shit." Color drained from his face.

"No _way,_ " someone else drawled.

Whipping around, Sam found Star leaning against a locker, arms crossed, smiling vapidly at them.

Star drew her leg up and crossed it over the other, her pale thigh poking through the slit in her cheerleading uniform. Pointing between the pair of them, she tilted her head. "You two are cute. Super Nancy Drew. Tell me _more._ I'm dying to know all about these orphans."

Tucker snapped the notebook shut and tucked it underneath his arm, looking guilty. His shoulders pulled up, slinking backwards the way he always did when faced with the A-List.

Sam detected a hint of genuine curiosity in Star. Weird.

When it was clear neither Sam nor Tucker planned on indulging her, Star sighed. " _FYI_ , that's my locker you two are flirting against. Don't blame me for eavesdropping when you're in my way."

Tucker reddened, sputtered, "We're _not_ —"

"Is this pipsqueak botherin' you, Star?" Dash sidled up next to Star. He shot a glare at Tucker and cracked his knuckles.

Sam tensed. In a rush of clarity, she realized that if Dash tried anything on Tucker, she'd _do_ something. She had grown fond of the kid and tired of the A-List.

Star looked as if she was debating whether or not to sic Dash upon them. After deliberating, she shrugged and batted her hair behind her ear. "There's no problem. I was just asking Sam if she was coming to Spirit Club again this week," Star said pleasantly.

Tucker's eyes widened in shock. He swiveled his head at Sam in disbelief.

Sam winced internally. _Great._ "I said I'd think about," she clipped, then walked away as quickly as possible. She unclenched her hands and tried to relax her jaw.

Tucker sped behind. "You went to a Spirit Club meeting?" he hissed, rounding on her as soon as they turned the corner. "Sam, you know that those meetings are bad news, especially with the ghosts out and about again."

"Just once. To talk to Paulina," Sam admitted. She _really_ had been hoping to avoid this conversation.

Tucker's brows furrowed. "Why?"

Her gaze studiously avoided his. "Because Paulina was the only person I knew at the time that would tell me what happened to Valerie."

Tucker stared in confusion. Sam had never told him about Valerie's death threat. Of course he wouldn't understand. He blinked furiously as if trying to compute what she was saying. "...Why do you care?"

Her shield slammed down. Irritation raked at her. "I don't have to ask your permission to do things, Tucker." The words were out of her before she could reign them back in.

"I didn't say you had to ask. It just seems like it is something you should, you know, _tell your friend._ "

"You'd tell me not to go! I knew we would get in a fight."

"I guess you were right!" Tucker snapped. His expression steeled. "Why did you want to know about Valerie?"

Sam's mouth clicked shut. She couldn't tell him. Valerie and him had been close, therefore he _had_ to know about the house. If she told him that Valerie had it out for her because she lived in the mansion, he might react the same way. He might want nothing to do with her. She couldn't have that. Tucker was one of her only friends... She blinked in realization. Tucker was her _friend._

Tucker's features darkened. His eyes narrowed behind his thick-rimmed glasses, arms crossing. "What _else_ aren't you telling me, Sam?"

Mouth suddenly dry, her grip tightened around her backpack straps. The Horror Hunt ticket, her address, the cabin, the skull, Evelyn Gray, Joy Nguyen, _Danny_ … "Everyone has secrets," she whispered hoarsely.

"Great." Tucker threw his arms up in exasperation. He shook his head, his eyes trailing up to the ceiling. Then, his gaze flicked back down and caught hers, expression hardening.

"Let me know when you wanna loop me in." He turned and walked away.

Sam felt her face crumble and the air whoosh out her lungs as she watched his retreating back. Everyone had secrets, and her own personal collection was steadfastly growing everyday. It felt _heavy._ As Tucker whipped out of sight, a sensation festered in her chest— a tingly achy feeling. Sam knew it well: Loss.

* * *

—Diary Entry V—

Tuesday August 14th, 1962

Still no Danny. We've searched the neighborhood and all of his usual hideouts. Nothing.

The police won't launch an official investigation until tomorrow. They keep saying that Danny probably ran away from home and that he'll come back, eventually. We have to give him time.

Danny didn't take anything with him. I checked his room. No money. No coat. No pictures.

He didn't run away. I know my brother. Sure, he can be immature, but he wouldn't run away. It just doesn't make sense.

.

Wednesday August 15th, 1962

This morning the police officially listed Danny as a missing person. They combed through his room and our entire house, interviewed our family and Danny's close friends.

This whole situation is surreal. I'm waiting for the punchline.

.

Thursday August 16th, 1962

Police found Danny's car five miles outside Amity sitting along the road. I'm relieved and terrified. Relieved that we found some evidence of where Danny went; terrified because he'd never abandon that car. Something bad happened to him.

The officers called in support from the neighboring precincts. Detective Leroy Gray is heading the investigation. He's young. Maybe late twenties. Black. He seems nervous and inexperienced. This is likely the first and only missing person case to ever happen in Amity. My parents don't trust him to handle the investigation properly.

Police won't answer our questions anymore. Mom and Dad are terrified. The way they're acting… it's like they know something we don't.

We've been driving up and down the highway where Danny's car was found. I hate how I keep looking in ditches. Everytime I see a piece of trash that looks like one of his sweaters it steals my breath.

.

Thursday August 16th, 1962

The police told us there was a napkin from the Nasty Burger wedged in the driver's seat of Danny's car. A waitress remembers him there on Sunday around 3pm. He played the jukebox. The Sensations.

The last time I was at the Nasty Burger was when we were moving to Cincinnati. Danny must have been five. They had the best strawberry milkshakes.

.

Thursday August 16th, 1962

A task force with bloodhounds is searching the woods near where Danny's car was found. The dogs took the scent of Danny's comb.

In the meantime, Vlad is letting us stay at his place in Amity. He's posted a generous reward for any information on Danny's whereabouts.

My parents can't sit still. They're out asking people if they've seen Danny. They're showing everyone that old school photo of him from 8th grade with the cowlick hair. He always hated that one.

Johnny keeps telling me that it'll be okay. I'm not sure. I can't help but think if Danny and I hadn't fought he'd still be here.

.

Thursday August 16th, 1962

It's midnight. Mom and Dad came back ten minutes ago and woke me with their yelling. I can hear them arguing right now in the living room.

Dad: This is my _son_. If that man knows anything, I'll _make_ him tell us.

Mom: He's my son too, Jack. But that man has no motive to take Danny.

Dad: We don't know that. You saw how he reacted when we told him who we were. You know Danny. He could've joked about something and set that psycho off.

Mom: Everyone knows us by now. We're all over the news.

Dad: He knows something.

Mom: What are you going to do then, Jack? _What?_ Beat the man up? Torture him? Get yourself _arrested?_

Dad: Of course not. I just can't just sit here and do _nothing_.

Mom: We told the police.

Dad: The police will need a warrant to search that place. In order to get a warrant they'll need evidence. And in order to get evidence, they need to search that place. By the time they get inside, it will be too late.

Mom: That does _not_ give you permission to break and enter.

Dad: What if Danny's there this very second? What if that man is some kind of pervert? Why else would someone take a boy?

Mom: Jack, _STOP!_ Don't do that, you can't— you can't think like that.

I've never heard our parents fight. This has to be some kind of nightmare. Any minute now I'll wake up. I'll race downstairs and find Danny already at the table loading an ungodly amount of pancakes on his plate— he'll have never left— and life will go back to normal. Any minute now.


	15. Lonely Boy

.

〰〰〰

 **15**

Lonely Boy

〰〰〰

The Horror Hunt Ghost Tour consisted of around thirty people, all bundled up in thick coats, huddled together and chatting nervously with one another. Most were from out of town. A few of them had UC sweaters on.

Sam tried melting into the middle of the crowd. She couldn't help but feel slightly embarrassed for being here. Not in a million years would she have thought of herself as someone that not only believed in ghosts, but paid twenty dollars to attend something so touristy. She hoped no one she knew saw her on this. She thought of Danny and miserably wound her scarf around the bottom portion of her face. God, if that kid caught her, she'd never hear the end of it.

The man leading the charge was old and cloaked in a billowing black cape. He had on a top hat and held an oil lantern. Sam recognized him as the man she had seen outside her house when they had first moved in.

"Greetings, _minions_ ," the man said theatrically. He waggled his lantern and his imposing eyebrows, the lighting illuminating all the wrinkles in his face. "My name is Frederick. Tonight we will explore the darkest corners of Amity Park. Safety first, everyone take a look around."

The crowd glanced sidelong at one another. It was a lot of couples, a few middle-aged women, and college students.

"Remember these faces, should anyone new and unwelcome decide to tag along," the man chuckled, before taking off down the street with long strides. He was nimble for how old he looked. The group hurried along behind him. One of the boys in a UC sweatshirt made a ghoulish noise and wrapped his arm playfully around his friend, who flinched, before shoving him away.

It was something Tucker would have done, had he still been talking to her. Sam swallowed regretfully at that thought and quickened her stride to fall in line with the others.

When they rounded the block, Sam knew where they were headed before she saw the Victorian facade. Her house rose up out of the mist, looming and regal. The lights were off. Her parents weren't home and wouldn't be home for another couple hours, which gave her plenty of time to attend this tour and get back before they noticed she was missing. Sam had to admit, with the windows looking back at her like black beady eyes, the house was pretty creepy.

Frederick paused to the right of the driveway near the gate. He held up his lantern with a mischievous grin. "Our first stop— the Master's Villa. Erected in 1892 by a wealthy arms dealer, this house is one of the oldest landmarks in Amity Park. Over the course of it's existence, it's had over forty different owners, all lasting only a few years or so. It's named after its longest resident, Vladimir Masters, who lived here for thirty-eight years."

Sam was itching to write this down, but had to settle for memorization. She let out a soft breath in a plume of condensation and craned her neck up at the steeples.

Frederick gestured to the sides of the house, towards the backyard. "The house rests atop two square miles of land containing a pond and an expanse of forest— a forest rumored to contain the spirits of those that fell prey to the house." He raised a brow, voice lowering. "The Masters Villa has had a long string of natural and accidental deaths. Just three years ago, the last owner of this house was found hanging from the chandelier..."

Sam shivered. Her gaze tore from Frederick's serious expression to the house. Wait— the light to her bedroom was on and the curtains were parted. _What the?_ No one was supposed to be home.

A dark outline of a person walked in front of the window. It slowly turned to face the street. Sam couldn't see it's face, but she knew without a doubt it was looking right at her. Her heart hammered in her throat. The figure held her gaze confrontingly as if to say: this is _my_ room. Then, it waved.

Sam looked around wildly to see if anyone else was noticing this, but the tour was preoccupied with the veranda.

"...a man was found right here, in a chair…" Frederick was saying.

Sam peered back up at the house. Her bedroom was dark again.

"I know why you're here. You've see him and think you've got something to fix," a voice announced.

Sam whipped her head around. Her scalp tingled; her breath caught in her chest.

Frederick stared at her coldly. "The instant I saw you I said to myself 'here's another one of them: another lamb awaiting slaughter, another meddlesome, arrogant, idiotic _child_ …'" His eyes gleamed, catching the fire from his lantern. "Poking your nose around in everyone else's business only attracts the worst kind of luck and the most loathsome of creatures."

"Excuse me?" Sam breathed, looking around, but no one else was paying attention. It was like time slowed and the tour group was stuck ogling at the house's veranda, oblivious.

Frederick kept talking like a man possessed, voice low and gravelly. "Let me tell you a story. I was driving in the middle of a violent May windstorm. I used to run a traveling circus. Opie— my African elephant— was ill, and the medicine I needed was in Cleveland. A tree had fallen across the freeway, blocking the left two lanes. The detour route took me down a small winding two lane highway only frequented by loggers..."

Not taking her eyes off the man, Sam reached into her jacket pocket and found the lipstick ghost detector. She popped the cap off.

"...Sequoias loomed on either side of my car. Rain came down in sheets so hard the droplets collided against my windshield in a deafening roar. The mist from the downpour created a haze that made it hard to see more than five yards ahead..."

Sam chanced a glance into her coat pocket, a faint green emitting from inside. Ghost.

"...I didn't see him until I nearly ran him over. He didn't even flinch. Just slammed his hands on the hood of my car. A boy, sixteen, maybe seventeen, in a thin t-shirt, no shoes, and pants ripped and bloodied at the knees. He looked dirty, starved, and sedated. He was mumbling something and although I couldn't hear him above the rain and my car radio, I could read his lips..."

Sam knew she should run, her brain kept telling her feet to run, but her limbs were stuck. Frederick's voice was so loud it sounded like it was coming from inside her own head.

"...He was begging for me to help him. So I did. I got out of my car and asked him where he had come from, who had done this to him, and where his parents were." Frederick's eyes bore into Sam's. "It was the last thing I ever did."

"Sam? _You're_ on a ghost tour?" a perky, obnoxious voice cried out.

Sam glanced to her right and spotted Paulina bounding up to her, the scent of her perfume a powerful intoxicant, breaking whatever witchcraft had just transpired.

Sound returned and pressure eased off her ears. Wind whipped and rustled the leaves, the gate squeaked softly, and the tour group chattered amongst each other, moving, fidgeting to keep warm. Frederick chatted with one of the tour group's attendees, as if that whole exchange had never happened. Dazedly, Sam felt like she had fallen into an alternate reality before popping out the other end.

"Yes, it's been remodeled several times…" the guide was saying.

Sam shuddered, heart pounding, suddenly afraid of ghosts and all that they could do. She forced her expression to remain neutral. Danny had said something about not letting ghosts taste fear.

"Hellooo?"

Sam edged away from the group.

"Are you _ignoring_ me?"

"No, no. I just" —the absurdity that Paulina was here finally hit her— "what are you doing here?"

Paulina huffed and crossed her arms. She spent a few seconds looking annoyed, before shooting Sam a bright smile. "I _always_ walk by here, silly. After all, this was close to where I met Phantom." She peered out at the empty street and sighed.

Sam really wasn't in the mood to chat with Paulina. She listened distractedly, her mind still looping around what had just transpired. The tour group started to move off down the street towards their next destination and Sam found herself in a dilemma. Follow, despite what just happened in order to gather more information, or stay behind and as far away from that ghost as possible.

"I know Phantom's around," Paulina chimed in a sing-song voice. "Several people say they've seen him."

"Good for you. Go find him, get married, and have little half ghost offspring," Sam mumbled under her breath. She clenched her hand around the lipstick detector in her pocket, then slumped, too freaked out to finish the tour. Part of her felt like a massive wimp for chickening out. She started to head back towards her house before realizing what she was doing. _Shit._ Maybe Paulina was too dumb to notice.

"Phantom's been hanging out with some _other girl,"_ Paulina continued. "You wouldn't happen to know who this _puta_ is? Because I don't share."

"Why would _I_ know?" Sam exploded in exasperation, wanting nothing more than for Paulina to shut up and leave. "I have no clue where your ghost friend is or who he hangs out with. I've never even met him. Nor do I _want_ to."

Paulina approached her with the deliberate gait of a tigress. Her gaze was hooded, her fingernails filed into claws as she pointed at Sam accusingly. "Good. Because I like you. You and I are friends. You're the only person around here that tells the truth."

Sam blinked, buffeted by the sudden emotional swing. She had thought of Paulina as some shallow harpy. Paulina was deeply serious about Phantom.

 _"_ Anyway, night night, _"_ Paulina called as she started walking down the street. "You might want to catch up with your tour."

Sam watched her go, then a question bubbled up out of her. "Why call him Phantom? Why name him at all?"

Paulina paused. She tilted her head. "I didn't. That's what he _asked me_ to call him when we first met. He said his name was Danny Phantom."

Danny. _Danny._ Manners and nice shoes. Her gravekeeper. Phantom, a ghost. A young boy— sixteen, maybe seventeen. Common name. White kid. Nice family. Missing? Sam sucked in a sharp breath. She felt like the world was shrinking around her, slamming together. There was a ringing in her ears like a timer– an upbeat _DING!_ It couldn't be coincidence. There were too many complex pieces fitting nicely together for it to be happenstance.

Paulina's eyes flicked up at the mansion. "Nice house, by the way. We should have our Spirit Club Halloween Gala at your place." She sent Sam a conniving wink before ambling down the street, triumphant pep in her step.

.

.

Sam entered the house and closed the front door behind her silently. She flicked the lock, her hand resting on the metal as she let out a slow breath. Her gaze refocused on her hand, which was trembling against the door. Frowning, she held it out in front of her and willed it to steady, yet it wouldn't cease its shaking.

She grimaced and curled her hand into a fist instead. There. That was better.

Her thoughts flew to the figure in her bedroom. Quickly, her eyes did a sweep of the landing, lingering on the chandelier dangling overhead. She should call the police, she really really should... But the police wouldn't be able to do anything against a ghostly home invasion. Sam instead darted down the hallway and grabbed a knife from the kitchen, as if a knife would fair any better.

Back pressed against the wall, she edged her way towards one of the staircases and stepped lightly along the stairs, managing to make her way up with minimal squeaking.

Her bedroom door was closed. She checked the crack underneath; no light spilled forth. Dark, then.

Her grip tightened on the knife as she cranked the doorknob and pushed the door open, reaching out swiftly for the lightswitch. The light popped on. A quick glance around the room confirmed it was empty. Sam checked her closet and underneath her bed. Empty.

She checked her parents' room and the guest bedroom, yet nothing seemed out of place. Relaxing, she closed the door to the guest bedroom and looked down the hallway again. As she made her way for the stairs, intent on putting away the knife, she noticed something off.

The chain used to yank down the stairs to the attic swayed.

Sam tightened her hand around the knife. That chain had been pinned to the ceiling ever since they had moved in. Her parents had stuffed the attic full of boxes of things they would never use and never get rid of, then promptly forgot about ever going back up there.

Sam eyed it. This felt like another test, similar to the detour route and the tour. Run, or play? The chain slowed its swinging and stilled.

Sam pointed the tip of the knife at it accusingly. "I know you want me to go up there," she told the house, feeling crazy.

Maybe she _was_ crazy. Maybe this was what happened to everyone that lived in this house… Valerie, Evelyn, they all went nuts. She thought of the girl with dark hair that haunted her dreams, who Sam was convinced liked to open up her bedroom window, and wondered if she was the one that had waved to her.

With her free hand, she pulled out her lipstick detector and fumbled it open. Green. Sam shivered and edged along the wall, passing underneath the attic door. "I know you're there," she breathed. "Tell you what. I'm going to go in our room. And you're going to stay in that attic. Deal?"

No answer.

Sam nodded, put the lipstick back in her pocket, felt behind her for her doorknob, and backed slowly into her room. She shut the door and locked it, knowing locks did little to keep out the dead. It made her feel a little better, though.

Staring at the door, half expecting that shrouded figure to walk through it, she slowly walked backwards until her legs hit her desk chair and she fell into it. Nothing happened. Her room was still, besides a soft breeze that ruffled her drapes and whistled the pane of her window.

Sam scowled, getting up, slamming the window shut for what felt like the millionth time. As she closed it she realized her hands were no longer shaking.

She crawled into her bed, thoughts whirling. Danny was Phantom? The same Phantom that Paulina infatuated with. Worse— Sam now suspected that she really _was_ the girl Paulina was hunting since Danny and her had done nothing but hang out, for months.

Did she even _want_ to hang out with him anymore?

He was a ghost. He was everything she should avoid. Sam clutched her pillow close, breath shallow pants. He was _her_ ghost. He was everything she _needed_. Her feelings tripped, tangled. She found she wasn't too surprised and, if she was being completely honest, she had always known he had been dark, ghostly, something… _else._ She'd just ignored it because she really really liked him.

Sam scrunched her eyes shut and tried to control her breath. Sucking in a huge lungful, she pressed her face into her bedding. How come he hadn't hurt her? How come he had been helping her? Was he the missing boy her grandmother told her about?

… How did he die?


	16. Come Back to Me

.

〰〰〰

 **16**

Come Back to Me

〰〰〰

The next couple of days passed in a blur.

Sam sat by herself in the cafeteria. All around her students chattered with humming energy. A group of students played Egyptian Ratscrew a table away, hands slapping loudly onto the formica, exploding into shouts and jeers whenever one of them was quick enough to snag a pair.

Sam gazed around her table at the empty chairs, then down at her lunch: tofu, rice, steamed vegetables, and water.

Tucker had been ignoring her all week. Sam knew she had to talk to him eventually. She grimaced, realizing Tucker was the only living friend she had and that he had been right about Danny. She wasn't very good at admitting that, or apologies.

So she deflected. She was getting pretty pro at it. She'd dodged Paulina, the rest of the A-List, and Spirit Club. Avoided looking Tucker in the eye. Put off writing her paper. Evaded her mother, who had been trying to corner her every chance she got into talking about her sessions with Spectra. Most painfully of all, she had ignored Danny, and tried not to think too hard about the fact that he was dead and how she felt about that. Truth was, she didn't know how she felt about it.

Sam sniffed and scooped up some tofu pieces, plopping them in her mouth. Everything was fine. It was fine. She was fine. She chewed mechanically, swallowed. Chewed mechanically, swallowed. Reached out for her glass water bottle, and that's when she noticed her: Valerie Gray, wild hair and hard eyes, sitting directly across from her, glaring. _"You."_

Sam tensed and grabbed her water bottle in case she needed it as a bludgeon. Valerie's punch was fresh in Sam's mind. The fact that they were in a public place didn't put her at ease. Valerie wasn't exactly stable.

"You told my dad about something in the woods, and now he's been going in there. They're going to get him too," Valerie accused. She bared her teeth, leaning over the table, hands gripping the edge until her knuckles turned white. "I _told you to stay away!_ "

The cafeteria got quiet. At the Egyptian Ratscrew table, the students froze with hands still outstretched mid-slap, watching.

"If something happens to him, I will fucking _end_ you," Valerie continued, voice a gravelly whisper. "He's all I've got left." Her face cracked, eyes wandering, lost.

It was obvious that a lot of this anger was bravado. Sam let go of her water bottle and forced her shoulders to relax.

"All I've got left," Valerie echoed, voice calmer.

"Look." Sam tried to pluck her words as delicately as possible. "I know what happened to you. It was horrible—"

"You _don't,_ " Valerie cut. Her tone rose a few levels. "How could you? You don't _get it at all._ Nothing has happened to you. Not _yet."_

Not good. Retreat. Sam backpedaled. "You're right. I don't get it. I have no idea what it's like." That seemed to appease her. Valerie paused, mouth still open. Her gaze refocused. She hesitated and Sam took it as a good sign, so she continued, softly, "You can hate me. But I promise you, I'm going to stop them."

"The only way to make them leave is to move out of the house. I _already told you—_ They can only haunt Amity Park when someone lives in the mansion." Valerie muttered, yanking her backpack close to her chest. "You can't stop them. You will never stop them. The more you try the more fun they will have destroying you."

"But ghosts aren't all evil people," Sam said.

Hugging her backpack to her chest, Valerie seemed to shrink into herself. "Yes they are. They made me see what happened in that house—" she cut off, head twitching to the side, eyes screwed shut.

Sam extended her palms flat against the table and leaned in. "You know how I know that all ghosts aren't bad people?"

Valerie stilled. Her closed eyes scrunched tighter.

"Because I've seen your mother."

All color drained from Valerie's face and she snapped her eyes back open wide. "No," she whispered. A hand shot up to her neck, to a necklace— a golden heart-shaped locket. Was that Valerie's mothers? Was that a relic? "You're wrong. Mom can't be...Can't be..."

"I saw her," Sam stated. "If all ghosts are evil, how come I saw your mom?"

"No!" Valerie hissed, although she looked more heartbroken than angry. "You're wrong." For a split second Sam thought Valerie would flee. Just up and take off like she normally did, but instead she wound her arms on the table and pressed her face into them, hair spilling forward.

Most of the cafeteria watching them. Catching Sam's glare, student's turned back to their food, talking in nervous hushed whispers. They kept darting little glances at Valerie like she was a time bomb ready to go off.

Guilt trickled through Sam despite the fact that Valerie had threatened her. Sam had caused this breakdown and, even though they weren't friends, she found herself empathizing. Valerie was sad and unpredictable, which made people afraid of her. An outcast. Not so different from Sam.

With a scowl, Sam picked up her fork and turned back to her meal. Well Valerie wasn't something to oggle at. She deserved better. Sam continued eating, as if Valerie sitting there was normal. "Tucker told me how brave you are."

Valerie's hitching shoulders paused. She was listening.

"Hunting them, confronting them, all by yourself. You're braver than I am. All I do is run away…" Sam trailed off, her fork pausing. She frowned and set it down. The tour guide, the ghost in the attic, Evelyn at her back door, even the detour route— all Sam had been doing had been running from ghosts.

How was she going to find out what unfinished business they had if she kept avoiding them? For that matter, how was she ever going to solve anything at all, if she kept avoiding all her problems? Sam grimaced, realizing that's all she did, _avoid and deflect._

She turned her head and found Tucker sitting a few tables away. His glare softened and turned curious, like he was wondering what Sam had said to Valerie. Sam tried a small smile, but he looked away.

Valerie was sitting up again and peeking at her through the thick tresses of her hair.

"You just helped me realize something," Sam breathed, getting up from her chair. "Thank you."

.

.

Thursday night, a small rock pinged off her window.

Underneath a star-freckled sky, Sam caught sight of a pair of blue eyes peeking from within a tangle of bushes. Sam leaned away, heart hammering in her throat. Danny— _ghost_ Danny.

Another rock pinged.

Sam wondered if he'd just go away if she ignored him. But she didn't _want_ to ignore him; she missed him. She sighed and hefted the window up, sticking her head out. "Doing a little nighttime gardening?"

In the darkness she could only see his eyes and his teeth, the latter of which reflected the light from her room, revealing a row of perfect pearly tombstones. "Come down," he coaxed.

For the first time, Sam hesitated.

He batted a leaf out of his face and frowned. "I haven't seen you around. Are you… are you mad at me?" he asked hesitantly. His tone was so lonesome it made Sam's chest ache.

"I'm grounded." A half-lie. "My mom and I are in a fight. Ever since the night we went in the forest she's been checking my room to make sure I'm in here. I can't sneak away."

His eyes scrunched in confusion and darted about her face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing… I just…"

Silence. Crickets chirped. Off in the distance, a car's engine rumbled.

"...Is this about the other night? I'll let you in on a little secret. You do _not_ want to kiss me. I've heard it's awful," he joked. He paused, and when Sam said nothing, he tittered on nervously, "You should be thanking me. It's the nicest thing I've never done."

Sam laughed breathlessly. This _hurt._ Sam leaned away from the window and grasped at her chest with her hand, throat aching with emotion. Why couldn't he be more like that tour guide? Why did he have to be so likeable? He was _dead_ god _dammit._ She shouldn't be hanging out with dead people.

"Sam?" his voice drifted up, serious now, even concerned. "Hell, Sam. I'm... I'm sorry."

Her face crumpled. Danny was the only person she felt okay being herself around anymore. Being that he was a ghost, she should really shut her window and never talk to him again. That would be the _smart_ thing to do. Run, and keep running, forever. Live another day. Always alone and afraid and exhausted- oh to _hell_ with it. Sam leaned back out the window. "You're a real creep, you know that? Stalking around under my window."

Danny sent her a timid smile. "Had to make sure nothing else was." He put his hands on his hips and looked around dramatically, parting the bushes to look inside, making a show of stomping around in the dirt. Shadows cascaded across his back as he ducked in and out of the light from her window as the soft light from the half-shrouded moon glimmered in his hair. His movement startled the crickets into silence. "Nope. All clear."

"Oh? And what would you do if something _was_ down there?"

Danny's eyes flashed. "You don't wanna find out."

"Oooh, so scary," Sam snorted. Her nervousness faded away with their banter. It was too easy to fall back into their routine. She rested her elbow on her windowsill, her head in her chin, and stuck out her tongue. _"Adorkable."_

"Hey— I can be scary," Danny argued with an indignant pout. He leaned forward, smirking in a villainous way that was more cute than freaky. "I can be _really_ scary. I just haven't been trying."

Sam couldn't take him seriously. Heinousness didn't suit him. "I'm _so_ sure," she drolled.

Danny sighed a loud, impatient sigh. Blue eyes rolled. "You coming down or what?"

Sam bit her lip. Leaving her room was out of the question; her mother would notice. As for inviting him in... She wasn't completely averse to the idea. She was bumbling along in the dark trying to solve this mystery of what had happened to all these ghosts, and here was one begging to hang out with her. She needed to get close; to immerse herself. With that investigative spirit, Sam hoisted her window fully open. The cold night breeze whipped her heart into a nervous flutter. Spending only a second wondering if this was a bad idea, she said, "Come inside."

She turned away from the window and went for the desk, plopping down in her chair. Sam listened for any indication that he had taken her up on her offer. As she tucked away her research and organized her pens, her eyes drifted to the lipstick ghost detector. It was a little too late for that now. She picked it up and put it in her pocket anyway.

Sam felt him enter the room. A cool wind gusted through her room, her lights flickered and dimmed, goosebumps up her arms and legs, as she was hit with unshakable foreboding feeling. She twisted and found him near her window.

The bedroom lamp lit him up clearly. Sam realized she had rarely seen his face lit up like this. Usually he was obscured by night. He was dressed in a pale blue sweater over a white collared shirt, dirt on the elbows, black and white wingtip shoes, and dark gray pants. His skin had a blurry sheen to it.

"Letting a strange boy into your room? What would your mother say?" Danny teased.

"You're pretty strange, alright," Sam breathed, trying not to let it spook her that she hadn't heard him climb up the fire escape.

Eyes wide with childlike curiosity, Danny bounced from one thing to the next, taking in her black curtains and black bedding, her Doom metal posters with skulls, dripping blood, and gothic type. "Your room is very you." He paused at the nightstand where her phone was plugged into her charger, picking it up. Dark brows furrowed, as if he was trying to figure out what to make of it.

"It's an iPhone," she explained, feeling silly. It was easier to talk about her phone than to confront Danny about his… deadness. "Like, a telephone."

"Huh," he stated, grew disinterested, and put it back. He leaned over and pointed at a photo— Sam and an Asian girl with a bright smile and thick straight hair yanked back into a ponytail. "Who's that?"

Sam clicked a pen nervously, rotating in her desk chair. "Good friend of mine. Her name was Joy."

Danny's gaze flicked up and met hers as he caught the past tense.

"She's dead." She rubbed along her neck, along her collarbone, fingertips skimming along the bump where the bone had broken and punctured through her skin only a year previous.

Danny picked up the photo and peered down at it. "What was she like?"

Sam blinked, caught off guard. Usually when people found out about Joy they said something along the lines of _I'm so sorry_ and then changed the subject to avoid awkwardness. Then again, Danny had never shied away from mortality. Now that Sam knew that he was a ghost, his attitude made a lot more sense. If anyone would understand death, it would be him.

Her eyes drifted to the photo. What was Joy like? "She was optimistic. Quiet around people she didn't know, loud with people she did… Made friends with just about anyone."

There was more of course. That she always smelled like vanilla cupcakes, because she insisted on using cheap drugstore lotion simply for the fact that it contained glitter. She had permanent dimples from how much she smiled. She had a crooked front tooth, her hands were always cold, and she had a habit of speaking faster and higher the more excited she got. When she laughed she always covered her mouth with her hand, like it was impolite. Sam thought of all these attributes and felt a dull ache instead of the usual harrowing grief.

She glanced away from the photo and found Danny staring at her. "How did she die?"

"In a car accident. We were on our way to lunch when a semi truck drifted into our lane; the driver had fallen asleep. I tried to swerve, but I lost control. The car flipped. Her airbag never went off. The doctors said she died fast and painless. I was pinned to her body for an hour before they pried me out..." Sam trailed off, sucking in a breath. This was the first time she had openly discussed this with…anyone.

"That's a horrible thing to go through," Danny said solemnly.

"Everyone tells me it wasn't my fault," Sam ranted, unable to stop talking now that she started. "They all treat me like I'm broken." She glanced up. "Not you."

He put the photo back. "So that's where that scar is from…?" He gestured at his neck, mirroring the spot where a pink scar peeked out from her beneath her tee.

Her hand flew up to cover it.

Danny held up his hand, a small scar in the shape of a crescent moon running along the back. "Got this when one of my rockets got caught in the wind and ended up on the roof. Parents weren't around, so I decided to get it myself. It had just rained and the shingles were wet. I slipped; fell into a woodpile. I tried to catch myself, but my hand came down on a branch. Some of it went clean through. Really messed up the ligaments." He barked a laugh. "You should have seen my sister's face when I showed her. She _hates_ blood."

"You have a sister?" Sam was suddenly struck with how little she knew him. He endlessly asked _her_ questions. Maybe it was time she asked some of her own.

He tensed. "Yeah," he breathed. "An older sister."

Sam waited for him to elaborate.

"C-Can you stop doing that?" he asked instead, voice pained.

Sam blinked. "Stop asking you questions?"

"Stop with that _pen_ ," Danny hissed.

Sam glanced down, bewildered, and found she had been snapping her pen over and over without meaning to. She stopped and tossed it over her shoulder where it clattered on her desk. "Sorry," she said sheepishly. Right. He was a ghost. For a moment there, she had forgotten. "You okay?"

"The police were in the woods yesterday," he blurted, changing the subject. He glided over to her vintage record player and fiddled with the needle, shooting her an accusing look. "You told them about the cabin."

Sam tried to judge whether he was angry, but all she could detect was hurt. "I had to tell," she murmured, getting up from her chair and crossing the room. As she approached him he took a few steps back. The needle _rrrrpfsh'd_ as he dropped it back onto the record in his retreat.

She scanned his face, mere feet away. He looked real, yet had an almost dusty quality, like a thin film had accumulated across his features. He hesitated. "Did you… did you tell them about me?"

Sam's gaze softened. "No."

"They'll come back with more questions," Danny pressed, anxious. His fingertips traveled along his lips, tapping there— a tick he had picked up since quitting smoking. "How are you going to explain how you found it?"

"Why are you so freaked out about the police?" she wondered, breath catching. Her heart suddenly gave a heavy _thud_. It was on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to say it. _Had_ to say it! Had to confront him about his ghostliness, but how would he react? Her stomach churned. _Courage._ A hand delved into her pocket and found the detector, gripping it tightly like an anchor, like it would save her from the consequences of what she was about to do.

She looked him directly in the eye. "Afraid they'll find out that skull is yours _?_ "

He balked. "What?" Fear was written plain on his face, etched in his too-wide eyes and the way his hand drew up to protect a spot near his heart much in the same way Sam's hand would find her collarbone. He had been hurt there before. Perhaps fatally hurt.

So she was right. She exhaled like she got punched in the gut. "So it's true, then." Sam stared him down as she slowly drew the lipstick detector out and flipped it open. "No point in hiding it anymore, right _Phantom?"_

Danny met her gaze—his terrified, her determined— before they both looked down at the device.


	17. Don't You Worry, My Little Pet

.

〰〰〰

 **17**

Don't You Worry, My Little Pet

〰〰〰

The lights flared green damningly.

"Wait—" Danny stammered, thrown.

Sam capped the device and gazed at the boy she had spent countless nights with since moving here, who she had spilled her soul to, had trusted, _still_ trusted— and decided in that moment, "I don't care."

"It's not—" He froze and did a triple take, jaw mouthing soundlessly before he found some syllables and strung them together. "I'm— wait, _what?_ You don't... You don't _care?"_

"I don't care," she repeated. "Tucker told me you were dead, but I didn't want to believe it because you were my best friend and I didn't want to lose some part of you. Now I know that part was never really there to begin with."

A hand ran through his hair several times, mussing it up, before running down the back of his neck. "How can you not _care?_ "

Sam waited, well aware she might have broke his brain.

His eyes flashed neon. "You knew about me and you still invited me in. You are _actually_ insane."

Sam shrugged. "If you wanted to kill me you would have done it. We've been hanging out alone for months." He had plenty of opportunity. The graveyard, the forest, even the junkyard.

Indignant air blew out of him. "You don't know that," he whispered. "How could you know that?"

Again, Sam shrugged. "I didn't know. I _hoped_. I gambled."

He took a step back to lean against the wall near her record player. "Haven't I taught you _anything_?" he asked weakly. "Ghosts can't be trusted. Not even me."

Sam sighed and turned back to her desk. She placed the lipstick detector atop it with a soft click. Her finger pressed on the cap as she stared down, collecting her thoughts. He was right. It made no sense for her to trust him. She tried, for a second, to put herself in his shoes. He existed on a different plane of reality than her. She would grow old and he would remain here, always the same. Time held no meaning at that point. She would live and die in what may very well feel to him like a day in comparison to the boundless eternity of his existence. He shouldn't care about the mundane goings on of her everyday life. And yet, Sam knew he did.

"When we first met you said you knew me, maybe, a little," Sam murmured softly. She straightened and found his gaze. "Well, I know you a little bit too. You're a good person."

Danny's expression twisted, darkened. He opened his mouth to say something, then froze, eyes flicking towards Sam's door.

Her mother's head poked through the crack of the door. "Sam? Who are you talking to?"

Sam's insides turned icy. She whipped towards the record player, finding the spot where Danny had been empty. Instead her record player sang Elvis's _Heartbreak Hotel_ and the window was wide open. Relief pummelled through her. Sam turned back to her mom. "Just listening to music. I didn't know you were awake. Sorry."

Pamela opened the door and stepped fully inside. Her eyes were red rimmed.

Realizing it was one in the morning, Sam's stomach sank. Her mother was never up at this hour unless something bad had happened. She went to stop her record player. Shock fizzled through her when she couldn't find a record in it. Elvis crooned on inexplicably, before, with a trembling hand, Sam docked the needle and silence filled her room. Mouth dry, she turned to her mother. "What's wrong?"

Pamela let out a small sob. "It's Grandma."

.

.

Ida Mendel's funeral was held on a brisk October day. The air smelt of grass and rain that had yet to fall— sky a blinding white-grey, full of clouds, without sun. Birds chirped pleasantly from the trees. In the distance, across the hill, a squirrel chased another squirrel up a tree. Sam watched and realized that it was _her_ tree those squirrels had raced up. She had hardly recognized it. Her graveyard was a lot less foggy during the day.

She looked for some sign that Danny was here. Had he dug this grave?

Her father nudged her with his elbow and Sam glanced back down at her laced black boots, mournfully. She was dressed in a loose black dress, hair tamed and shoved beneath a wide brim hat with black netting. She had forgone her usual thick black eyeliner and now felt vulnerable and naked without it. Dirt spread out underneath her feet. She curled her hands together and placed them near her lap, twisted them so she could take another look at the ring upon her pointer finger. An alligator with emerald eyes that glinted up at her: Ida's.

She glanced back up just in time to see the pine box containing her grandmother get lowered. Ida's _rabbi_ stood near the grave, dressed in a black suit and a black hat, chanting softly in Hebrew— a language Sam had never felt the need or desire to learn.

As her parents shuffled over to the grave and dusted dirt onto Ida's coffin, her mother began to sob, leaning heavily with grief into her father's shoulder.

Sam waited until her parents left the grave, before bending down and grabbing some dirt in her fists. She wasn't Jewish but figured that she could follow along today. With a soft exhale she walked over to the hole and knelt, crouching atop her heels. She peered underneath the brim of her hat into the grave.

"I should have visited you more often. Should have got to know you better," she whispered. Her eyebrows furrowing, knocking the black netting around as her nose scrunched. Her throat grew thick and her vision swam as tears welled in her eyes. They caught her off guard.

A heart attack had killed Ida. A heart attack in a woman who had never shown any previous signs of heart disease.

Sam released the dirt and sprinkled it over the wooden box. Then, she twisted the alligator ring off, cupping it in her palm. "Or maybe I shouldn't have visited you at all. Shouldn't have started asking you questions ghosts don't like being asked. Maybe then you'd still be alive." She dropped the ring. It landed with a hollow _thump_ and bounced off the side of the casket, disappearing.

.

.

Her parents insisted on holeing up in the mansion for _shiva_ , a Jewish mourning period, out of respect for her grandmother's passing. Sam quickly learned that _shiva_ consisted of sitting and thinking— a lot. Or, in her mother's case, drinking wine and sleeping— a lot.

All that sitting and thinking had led her to one conclusion: she was running out of time. Ida's death only confirmed that the ghosts wouldn't stop, and the longer Sam failed to solve whatever unfinished business they had, the more people would get hurt. The only other option was moving, but moving only delayed the ghosts until someone new bought the house. It wasn't a real solution.

Sam crossed her arms and tilted her head, her bangs falling to one side as she looked up at the door leading to the attic. She sighed before she reached up and yanked on the chain. The door popped open. With some delicacy, she unfolded the ladder. It was old and, like most things in this house, squeaked.

Sam got atop the first step and bounced a bit, testing its strength. Seemed sturdy enough.

This was quite possibly the dumbest thing she had ever done. Well, that was a lie, she had done a lot of idiotic things in her life (like letting a dead boy into her bedroom), but willingly going into an attic after a ghostly invitation was high on the list of Dumbest Ideas Ever.

Sam climbed the rest of the ladder and took in the heavy musk of the mansion's attic. Her heart hammered in her throat as she fumbled around, blind, for a light. Her fingertips hit the beaded metal string of a pull-light. She yanked it. With a grating noise, light flooded the attic.

The first thing Sam noticed was how big it was. _Huge._ Then, other details trickled in. Wide beams held up the pitched roof above her head, spider webs nestled in the dark crevices in between the boards. The walls were unfinished, made up of rows of wooden planks. Dust ambled in the air without direction. A large, circular, green glass window marked the far end of the attic. It protruded outwards towards the front yard. As the afternoon light filtered through it, it turned the floor green as well. Boxes with her mother's handwriting lined the eastern wall. _Christmas, Easter, Art Supplies_ … The rest of the attic was barren.

Sam shivered. As winter approached the house got colder, despite how hard her parents cranked the heat. Up here, away from any vents, the attic was chilly and uninsulated. Beneath her feet, Sam could hear the muffled noises of her mother fumbling around in the kitchen. She sounded miles away.

It was… _nice_ up here. Quiet, secluded, spacious, private. Sam relaxed and padded deeper, feeling like this attic had been created personally for her.

Leaving the ladder behind, she reached the green window and craned forward to see the street. Because of the warped glass, the world outside stretched at the edges, like a fisheye lens. A soft smile flitted across her lips as she watched a woman walk a dog down the sidewalk. The weiner dog grew impossible in length as it reached the edge of the window. Sam reached out and ran her finger along the glass, removing a thin film of dust. As she pressed, the window flew open, sending a gust of wind past her face. "Cool," she whispered aloud.

Something moved behind her in the reflection. Sam stiffened and turned.

A girl stood a few feet away. She wore jeans, a red cable sweater, and white socks— dark hair tied back with a thin red ribbon. "That's my spot," she said softly, gesturing.

Sam's breath caught in her throat. This was the ghost that shared her room. Pieces of her dream flooded back to her, visions of this girl dancing and spinning around an old study. How she had circumvented the whole 'permission' thing to enter the house, Sam didn't know. She took an unconscious step back, her heel hitting the molding, tripping. Her hand flew back to catch herself, meeting air as it sailed through the open window. For a heart-stopping moment she thought she would fall right through it. Then her other hand found the window ledge.

The girl raised an eyebrow. " _That_ would've been fun," she drawled.

Dread pooled in Sam's stomach. The wind from outside whipped across her back, reminding her that she was trapped. For some reason— and she had no idea why— she found herself whispering under her breath, calling, summoning, "Danny. _Danny._ " After all, he made a habit of showing up when she needed him most.

The girl paused. Her youthful face pinched in confusion and her ponytail swayed as she tilted her head. "It's _Danielle._ "

Sam edged along the wall away from the window as she regained her bearings. Her hands felt behind her, threading through cobwebs. "This is your spot?"

"I've seen the way your parents treat you," Danielle murmured. She kicked out at the ground, tracing circles in the floor with her toe. "They lock you up in your room all the time because they don't know how to deal with you. It isn't fair." She glanced up, shooting Sam a bright grin. "My dad does the same thing, so I climb out of the windows."

That smile was familiar. Sam blinked. This girl _had_ to be related to Danny. Something nagged at her, like she had already had this epiphany, but couldn't remember where or when. "Who's your dad?" she asked.

Danielle's grin fell into a sullen glower.

Sam took a wild stab. "Vladimir Masters is your father."

Blue eyes narrowed. "I don't want to talk about him."

Sam's mind raced. Were Danny and Masters related as well? Was this his sister? Afterall, they could be twins. Had Masters locked away his only remaining child in fear after his son went missing? _No_ — Danny had said he had an _older_ sister. Danielle had to be barely thirteen. Besides, what parent in good conscious named their kids Daniel and Danielle?

Sam straightened. "Ok, what _do_ you want to talk about?" she wondered. Sam felt around behind her for something useful, even though she knew full well that nothing could protect her from this ghost, except maybe one of Tucker's inventions, or a relic. Her fingers hit something. She yanked at it and held it out like a gun, finding a rusty screwdriver instead.

Danielle stiffened. Her blue gaze widened, locked on the object. She backed away suddenly.

Maybe it was Sam's imagination, but the screwdriver felt like it was vibrating, humming, in her palm. She tilted the handle. Wooden, no name inscribed. "Is this yours—?" Sam trailed off, finding the attic empty.

Her shoulders hunched in anticipation, thinking the girl was lurking, but Danielle was truly gone. Sam could taste it in the air.

"You dead people could be more helpful," she griped aloud.

The attic had nothing to say in return.

.

.

Sam had forgotten about Halloween until she climbed the steps leading up to Tucker's front door. She stared up at a ghoul, having to lift its hand to find the doorbell. Sam blinked. That's right. Halloween was in less than a week. With a quick glance around the neighborhood, Sam pressed it, and heard the resounding _ba-dunggg!_ echo from inside. It sounded a lot more cheerful than her mansion's doorbell.

Locks clattered, the door cracked open. "Yes?" A slice of face peered at her, one violet eye appraising her up and down on the stoop.

Sam fiddled with her gloves. "Is Tucker home?"

The door opened all the way, revealing a curvy middle-aged woman in a black apron with orange trim. In curly type, the apron proclaimed: _World's Okay-est Cook_. She placed her hand on her hip and smiled. Her skin was tan, mixed ethnicity, although Sam couldn't determine of what, exactly. "You're a friend of Tucker's?" she asked. "Come in, come in. I'm Angela, Tucker's mom."

"Sam," Sam introduced, stepping into the house.

"Tucker's playing video games in his room. You can go on up. He's been at it all morning." Angela waved a hand at the stairs before she moved towards the kitchen. "I'm making sandwiches. You want one?"

This woman was so warm and likeable, Sam couldn't help but smile. "I'm okay, but thank you."

Angela nodded. "Well, let me know if you change your mind."

Sam hauled herself up the steps with trepidation. The stairway was brightly lit. Family photographs hung along the wall. Tucker as a baby. Tucker with his parents. Tucker with what looked like his... grandparents. Sam's gut wrenched. When she got to his door she let out a small breath and straightened. She dusted off her jacket, tucking her gloves in her back pocket before rapping three times.

From inside, Sam could hear the sound of a game controller rattling, like Tucker was pressing a button repeatedly. "Come in!" Tucker called.

Sam curled her hand around the doorknob and stepped inside.

Tucker didn't even glance up from his computer. He was hunched over his desk, controller in hand, headset on, playing _Fallout_. "No no no!" Tucker muttered under his breath, before his character got sniped and the screen darkened. With a sigh he spun in his chair and knocked his headset off. His eyes widened in surprise. "Sam?" His expression darkened. "What are you doing here?"

Sam looked at the floor. She really wasn't good at apologies, but Tucker had been right this whole time and she had done nothing but ignore him. "I came to talk."

"Okay…" he said suspiciously. With a clatter, he placed his controller down on his desk and gave Sam his undivided attention.

Sam sucked in a sharp breath, before just going out and saying it. "I don't want to fight anymore. You were right. I miss talking to you and hanging out in the library and eating lunch with you at school, and I'm sorry that I lied," she blurted, quickly. "So I'm going to tell you my secrets," —well, _most_ of them anyway.

Tucker clicked his mouth shut and nodded, eyes wide.

* * *

—Diary Entry VI—

Friday August 17th, 1962

108 hours missing. Our family is suspended, waiting, stuck counting time in ADL: After Danny Left. Each hour we don't find him feels like a massive failure.

I've been doing research. Time is a critical factor in search and recovery efforts. Most missing children are found within the first couple days. After that, the chances decrease significantly. I don't know what that means for Danny.

It's 3AM. Can't sleep. I can hear someone crying in the house. When we were little I remember Danny waking me up, saying he heard crying in this place. I think it's just Mom, though.

.

Saturday August 18th, 1962

127 hours missing. This morning Detectives Leroy Gray and David Wilson of the Amity PD came by and took Dad in to give a statement. Dad was furious. Said they were wasting their time on him when they could be looking for who _really_ took Danny. He kicked one of Vlad's chairs over on the way out.

Officer Gray said it's standard procedure. They need to get statements from all family members in order to rule them out as suspects.

He asked me if Dad's ever been violent. If Danny and him fought a lot. If Danny ever felt afraid of him. I know Dad kicking that chair looks bad, but our father isn't abusive.

He asked if Danny is involved in anything unsavory. Drugs? Gambling? Gangs? (No, no, and no.) If Danny has a girlfriend. (He wouldn't tell me, even if he did.) If he was picked on in school. (Not that I know of.) He asked if Danny has any enemies. I told him that when Danny comes home and he meets him he'll understand— he's impossible to hate.

.

Saturday August 18th, 1962

I told Officer Gray about the fight Danny and I had. I don't think I should have told him, because they took Johnny in too. I know what it must look like. Danny and Johnny never got along. Johnny's a biker. He has past convictions. But he's straight now.

We can't afford to question and suspect each other. It'll only rip us further apart. Mom's in the living room with Vlad's arm around her shoulder just sitting there. She didn't even say anything when they took Dad away. I can tell she doesn't know what to think or what to do. She's shutting down.

.

Saturday August 18th, 1962

Police released Dad and Johnny. Dad said the police found evidence that someone meticulously wiped Danny's car clean before dumping it. That's why they think someone took him. They have divers looking along the docks of Lake Erie. Officer Gray told Dad they're looking for Danny's things, but I know they're looking for his body.


	18. It Only Hurts For A Little While

.

〰〰〰

 **18**

It Only Hurts For A Little While

〰〰〰

Where to begin? Where to begin? Sam supposed, at the beginning.

"I live in the Master's Villa."

Tucker grimaced. "Paulina kind of told everyone on Friday when you weren't in school."

Sam crossed the room and sank down onto the edge of Tucker's bed, her legs wobbly at the thought that everyone now knew where she lived. "Great."

"Did you think I'd freak out and not want to hang out with you if I knew?" Tucker frowned.

Bile roiled in Sam's gut.

Her face must have fallen, because Tucker winced. "Ok, strike that— that's exactly what you thought," he amended. "Well, I mean, it makes a lot of sense now why the ghosts are following you around. It always focuses on whoever's living there. You've had more ghostly run-ins than everyone, except maybe Valerie."

She tucked her legs underneath her and sighed. "Valerie knows that I live in the house. She threatened me. I didn't know anything about her at the time."

"So you went to Paulina," Tucker finished.

Sam nodded. She told him everything. She hardly stopped to take a breath. She told him about Evelyn Gray and Danielle Masters. How she had gone on the Horror Hunt and had met yet another ghost. About finding a human skull in an abandon hunter's cabin in the woods. About how she had told Damon Gray, and was once again at the top of Valerie's shit list. She showed him the library card with Benjamin Skulker's name on it, and the screwdriver. It flowed out of her. "—and now to make matters worse, Paulina is leading a headhunt for whoever is hanging out with Phantom."

Tucker's eyebrows pinched. "Wait, who?"

Sam exhaled slowly. She dragged her fingers down her face, across her lips, and down her neck, resting atop her scar. "Phantom," she repeated softly. "Danny. Danny _is_ Phantom."

Tucker stared at her in shock, then his grip tightened around the arms of his desk chair and he leaned forward. "So you admit you've been hanging out with him," Tucker accused. "I _knew_ it. What did it take for you to finally believe he's dead?" He paled and shot her a fearful look. "What did he _do_ to you?"

Sam gritted her teeth. "What? ...What are you doing?"

Tucker had gotten up from his chair and edged away from her until his back hit his closet door. He reached into his cargo pants, whipping out a tube of lipstick.

Outrage coursed through her. He thought _she_ was a ghost? And what? That Danny had killed her without her even knowing? Then, a thread of doubt nagged at her. There's no _way_ she was dead. Right? She would know. Was it even possible to be dead and not know it?

Tucker glanced at the device. His shoulders relaxed and he tossed it onto his desk. "You're not dead," he told her, lopsided grin on his face. "Congratulations."

Sam rolled her eyes. " _Yippee_."

"C'mon, put a little more optimism in there," Tucker goaded. "You're not dead, _yippee!_ " He punched his fist enthusiastically into the air, his yippee coming out more cowboyish than anything else.

"Optimism means you lack information," Sam drawled.

Tucker stared at her for a hard second, then seemed to realize who he was talking to. His arm dropped back to his side. "So, why would a ghost hang out with you and not kill you?" he asked, poising the question more to himself than to Sam.

Sam answered it anyway. "Because we're _friends_?"

"I mean, I know you're fun to hang out with and all— 'cause you're such a happy shiny person— but what does he _really_ want?" Tucker paced back and forth in front of his closet door.

Sam blew out a breath in exasperation. "I don't know. He's lonely. He wants someone to talk to. Maybe he wants someone to notice him—" Words stuck in her throat. Her thoughts flew the missing boy, who in all likelihood _was_ Danny. Her face fell. It was too obvious. "He wants to be found," she whispered.

Tucker sat back down in his desk chair heavily, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "You mean he wants you to find his _body._ "

Sam shook her head. "There's more to it than that." Sam reached for her backpack and yanked out her notebook. Her fingers trembled as she was struck with a pang of grief at the thought of Ida, grip tightening, wrinkling the paper. Her vision clouded as tears sprang, raw, unbidden.

"Sam?" Tucker stilled his fidgeting.

"My grandma died. That's why I wasn't at school." With that, Sam flipped to the correct page, refusing to meet his gaze. She worked at unwrinkling the page.

"Sam, I'm sorry..."

Sam pressed on quickly, not wanting to linger on it. "She told me that a boy went missing in the summer of 1962. I don't know for sure— she never got the chance to tell me his name— but I think that boy was Danny. He matches the description."

"The boy in connection with all the other missing children?" Tucker asked, getting up from his chair to sit next to her, leaning over her shoulder to look at the notebook.

"If I'm right, he knows who the killer is. He says he's a gravekeeper. Maybe that's his way of saying he knows where the _all_ the bodies are buried," Sam mused aloud, catching Tucker's eye.

"You think that's what he _really_ wants," Tucker concluded. A queasy look passed across his face. "For someone to dig up the bodies and catch the killer. And that someone is you."

Sam shut her notebook. "It used to be Valerie. I think it might've been Paulina, too." A wry smile flitted across her face. "He probably realized pretty quickly Paulina wasn't interested in digging up dead bodies."

Tucker snorted at that. "Ok. So why not just say: 'Hey Sam, this douchebag did it. The bodies are at this specific location, mind giving mine to my mom? Thanks. Owe you one. Hit me up after you die and we'll get some chicken and waffles.'"

Sam stared. "Chicken and waffles?"

"They _gotta_ have that in Heaven. Like, the biggest juiciest plate of chicken and waffles..." He caught her disgust. "Hey, don't give me that snobby little vegan look. Don't knock it 'till you try it."

Sam laughed. It used a lot of muscles that had atrophied. As soon as she did it, she felt like crying. She had missed Tucker's silliness so much it physically ached.

"Ghosts can't just tell you things like that. They're cursed," she sobered, flipping to another page in her notebook. "But, I'm pretty sure he's been leaving clues. I just haven't been paying attention."

She ran down the list:

Amity Park Graveyard - Tree

Junkyard - Corvette, Circus Accident?

Woods - Hunters Cabin, Skull, Benjamin Skulker

Dream - Bookshelf, Jazz, Danielle Masters

Sam tapped the fourth item, the dream, which was coming back in blurry pieces. Almost like seeing Danielle while awake had dislodged it, jarring it loose.

"These are all the places I've seen him. I don't think they're random. The first step is finding his last name. If we find that, we might find news reports, or family members. I think I should retrace my steps. Can you run a VIN on a car to find the previous owners…?" Sam trailed off. Tucker hadn't said a word. She tore her gaze off the notebook, finding him looking resolutely away. "What's the matter?"

Tucker's shoulders hunched up until they almost touched his ears.

Sam leaned back slowly in realization. It felt like someone dumped ice water down her back. "You don't want to help," she breathed.

Tucker ducked his head. "No one's solved this in over _fifty years_ , Sam. Anyone that's tried has wound up dead or mentally disturbed. Something doesn't want this case solved. Guess who."

Sam shivered. "The killer's ghost."

Her thoughts churned. Danny had kept her alive in order to use her, yet somewhere along the way he'd grown attached to her. Sam knew that wasn't normal ghostly behavior. Why else would Evelyn be wandering around her back porch saying that he wasn't acting like his usual self? When Sam had first met Danny, he had been darker, less caring, more like the other ghosts Sam had encountered. Now, around her, he was warmer, sillier… more vulnerable. Sam thought of the whispering kids— ghosts that found amusement in toying with people, lying to them, luring them, hurting them, like it was a form of entertainment. She didn't want to find out what a serial killer's ghost was capable of.

Then she thought of the Grays. Damon. Valerie. Evelyn. Amanda Scully. Mikey. Her grandmother. All people that had been affected by this house, by these ghosts, and this case.

It would never end; not unless they ended it.

"We have to," she said, hoarsely.

Tucker glanced up.

"We _have_ to," Sam repeated, more conviction this time. "People will keep dying until the case is closed."

"But why do _we_ have to close it?" Tucker grated.

Sam's face flushed with indignant rage. The activist part of her, the part that she had inherited from her meddling, nosy, entitled parents, reared it's head. "Because if we don't, someone _else_ will sit here asking themselves the same thing, and if _they_ don't someone _else_ will, and someone _else_ , and each time no one does anything more people die."

Sam found herself on her feet, unable to remain sitting as her emotion welled. "No one is coming to save the day, Tucker. We can't wait around for a hand of God or some superhero to swoop in and fix everything. And we can't just hope that whoever's next has the guts." Sam clenched her hands into fists. "We have no choice."

"We _do_ have a choice. That's the thing." Tucker threw his arms up in exasperation. "I did this before. Remember? With Valerie and in case you didn't notice, _it didn't end well…_ " He gazed down at his carpet, at his shoes. "I'm not keen on… on repeating that."

Sam slumped. Her voice softened. "Look around." Sam gestured around at his bedroom walls, at the different posters— Superman, The Flash, Ironman, The Green Lantern, Spiderman, Batman, Wonderwoman... "All your life you've idolized these people that don't exist, but you don't need powers to make a difference. This right here— this is your chance, Tucker. Don't you want to be the hero?"

Tucker grimaced. Sam could see the gears whirling around in his head. His gaze flitted around the room, pausing on each poster.

 _"So,"_ Sam sucked in a breath. "If we go to the junkyard again and find a VIN, can you run it for the previous owner?"

 _"Can I?"_ Derisive snort. "Please." Slow smirk; _pop-pop-pop_ cracked knuckles. "I mean, _most_ people would just run it through Carfax. But Carfax won't give you the names of previous owners. You'd need access to the DMV database. Good thing I'm not most people."

.

.

The rusted Corvette was exactly where Sam had last seen it. In the daytime it looked even more decrepit than it had in the dark. Maybe Danny had distracted her from looking too closely at it before. Sam thought back to her record player. Maybe Danny could influence his environment. Make the car seem new, even though it wasn't. Either way, it was a demure orange, with only tiny spots of baby blue peeking through the caked rust to hint at its original color.

Sam glanced around the junkyard. It looked a lot less menacing and a lot more depressing in the daylight.

"It has single headlights, which rules out 1958-1962, " Tucker intoned, from her left. He bounced up and down a few times in his sneakers to keep warm, his breath pluming in front of his face, scanning through rows of Google images of different Corvette models on his phone. It was weird to have him alongside her again. Weird, in a good way.

He glanced around the junkyard nervously, before further inspecting the car, lapping around it.

"Convertible. Wider chasse. And..." Tucker leaned over the driver's side door, looking down into the eroded interior. "No factory seatbelts. I think this is a 1957." He tilted his phone, showing Sam a photo of a gleaming 1957 Corvette.

Sam tried to imagine this heap of junk looking as beautiful as the one in the picture.

"There's no way to be sure unless you get a peek at the engine," Tucker continued. He scrolled down on the page, pointing at a paragraph underneath the photo. "Says here that 1957's were the first model to use fuel-injection engines."

"Doubt this thing still has an engine," Sam muttered. She kicked down at the flat rubber tire, rims either stolen or sold. Most pieces were missing. Even the vintage circular Chevy ornament had been torn off, leaving behind a gaping jagged wound in the hood.

Sam ran a gloved hand along the side of the car. Underneath the rust she could feel the gentle sloping roundness of the original fender shape. The form of it was friendly. "Ok, so where do we find the VIN?"

Tucker frowned in contemplation. "Dunno. Let me search." He pulled his phone back up to his face and set to Googling.

As he did that, Sam cleared off dirt and leaves off the top of the trunk. Carefully she found the handle and tried yanking. The metal screeched. With a grunt, she struggled— it was heavy and rust had nearly fused the door shut— but she managed to hoist it up a crack. She fished for her flashlight, shining it down into the trunk. It was empty. Then, a flurry of movement in the darkest part of the trunk, near the back. Sam jumped, nearly dropping her light, before she saw three sets of shiny red eyes. Rats. They scurried out through a hole.

Sam shivered and pulled her parka closer, zipping it up all the way.

"The VIN should be on the driver's side door," Tucker announced.

Sam shot one last look at the trunk, before she walked around the car to where Tucker was tugging at the door.

"It won't… give…" Tucker panted.

Sam leaned over and pounded the door from the inside. There was a noise like something breaking, then the door popped open with a slow steady creak. The entire car shifted. Sam thought the door would break right off, but it came to rest, crooked.

Tucker peered around nervously. "Think anyone heard that?"

Sam crouched and turned her attention to the inside of the door. "If they did, there's nothing we can do except hurry up and get out of here." She shot the flashlight beam down along the cracked sheet metal, along the rusted metal window crank, and the handle to a storage pocket. Curious, she yanked that, peering inside. Nothing but leaves. Whoever had dumped the car had made sure to get rid of everything. Some giddy, silly part of her hoped to find a photo, a receipt, a napkin, loose change... _something_ to prove this had been Danny's car.

 _—You own a Corvette?—_

 _—Well… This one's mine.—_

"Sam," Tucker prodded, yanking her out of her thoughts. "Find the VIN."

Sam leaned back. "Sorry," she whispered. "I can't… I don't see it..." Using her teeth, she tugged her glove off her free hand and ran her fingertips along the inside of the door, feeling for any indication of a plate or a stamp. "You sure it's the driver's side door?"

"Yeah, hang on." Pause. "Ok. It says _post_. Like… the edge?"

Sam swiveled on her heels and pulled the door closer, looking at the edge. There was a little metal plate, attached with two screws. She dropped the flashlight and rooted around in her pack, getting out the screwdriver she had found in the attic. It wasn't a perfect match, but it did the job. The screws were already loose and brittle. At first crank they snapped off.

She palmed the metal piece and raised it up to show Tucker. "Got it."

"Great." He put it in a ziplock bag. "Let's go."

Sam grabbed her flashlight and put her glove back on, placing her hands on her knees to propel up, when something caught her eye. Something shiny. "Wait." She shone the beam down along the bottom edge of the car, near where the driver's door bolted to the floor. There was something stuck down there. With delicacy, Sam eased it out.

"What is it?" Tucker asked.

She stood and held out the object— a small tin box, two inches wide, five inches tall, embossed with a Lucky Strike logo. "It's a cigarette tin," she whispered. Her heart pounded as she pried it open. Inside: molded cigarettes and two pieces of emerald paper. "And _these…_ " Sam held the papers out, scanning them, "Are two tickets to an Alice and Wonderland themed prom."

Tucker grabbed one of them, wincing as it broke apart in his hand. "Sorry…"

Sam delicately turned her ticket over. The crest of the high school was pressed into upper right-hand corner— a wolf. Underneath, in script font, was the line _"Fall through the looking glass... Woodward High School's Annual Gala, 8pm, Saturday, May 3rd, 1962"_ Underneath was an illustration of Alice, tumbling mid-fall, her blue skirt whipping around her figure. Sam looked around for a name, but the ticket only had the number 0082 printed in gold foil. It was fragile from sixty years of neglect. Sam was certain the only thing that had saved it from complete disintegration was the cigarette tin and the waxy coat of the paper itself.

Tucker wordlessly held out two more ziplock bags. Sam placed the remaining ticket in one, and the tin in the other.


	19. Bring It On Home To Me

.

〰〰〰

 **19**

Bring It On Home To Me

〰〰〰

Bike tires crunched over frosted grass as Sam cut a corner. As the bike jolted back onto the sidewalk Sam's backpack bounced, rattled. She hunched her shoulders to get her scarf up around her ears, which were burning from the cold gale whipping past her face. School had just let out and she was headed home.

Tucker had been attempting to hack his way into the DMV server, but he had at least another couple days before he got close. Something about needing to steal an employee ID number and a password. Sam only really understood hacking as someone typing frantically on a keyboard with a screen of little green 1's and 0's, followed by a blinking 'Access Granted!'. When she had said something along those lines, Tucker had placed his hands atop her shoulders, looked her dead in the eye, and said, " _Honey._ Hacking doesn't work like that."

It was still light out, which meant no Danny. Sam felt a little wave of disappointment at that. Maybe he'd show up later. Not that she'd be able to sneak out to the graveyard; her mother was still making a point to check her room in the middle of the night.

She glanced over her shoulder, preparing to cross the street, and caught sight of a police car tailing her. Underneath her scarf she frowned. She slowed her pedaling until her bike came to a rest and put a foot down to balance it.

The car pulled over to the side of the road and the window rolled down. Officer Gray leaned an arm out the window, shooting her a look. "Ms. Manson," he greeted politely. He knocked on the side of the car door like he was knocking on a door.

Sam eyed him warily. "Officer." Why did she feel so guilty? It wasn't like she did anything.

"I have some information regarding your tip. I swung by the school to try and catch you before it let out, but you were already gone."

Curious, Sam twisted her handlebars towards the police car and rolled forward a few inches. "What did you find out?"

Damon Gray hesitated, then shrugged. "It will be on the news in a few hours anyway. The skull came back from forensics. We think it belongs to a middle-aged caucasian male that died about fifty years ago."

"Oh." Sam frowned, feeling both disappointed and relieved that it didn't belong to Danny.

"We think he was beheaded," Gray said conspiratorially. His eyes seemed to be alight with interest.

Beheaded, huh? Sam shivered. "Do you know who's head it is?" she asked.

Gray's eyes dimmed. He shook his head. "Not yet. But we're working on it."

Sam shifted a bit on her bike seat. She thought of the library card, of Benjamin Skulker, wondered if the skull was his, then felt a thread of guilt at removing it from the scene. "Do you think he was he murdered?" she asked.

Gray fell silent. His mustache furrowed, looking very much like he had a hunch, but wasn't allowed to tell her. "We don't know yet."

Sam got back atop her bike, putting her feet to her pedals. "Well, thanks for letting me know."

Gray leaned further out of the window as Sam began to peel away. "I'm curious how you found that cabin!" he called out after her.

"Stay curious," Sam whispered under her breath.

.

.

Sam flicked a baby carrot from one end of her plate to the other.

"Quit playing with your food," her mother chided, barely looking up, as she loaded more salad onto her plate. "It's bad manners."

Sam glanced up, deliberately stabbing the carrot with her fork and slowly putting it in her mouth. She made a big show of baring her teeth and yanking the carrot off the fork, chewing loudly.

"Elbows," her mother continued, unaffected.

Sam swallowed the carrot and begrudgingly tucked her elbows off the table to her sides.

A tense silence overtook the dinner table. The loud ticking of the grandfather clock echoed throughout, audible even though it was a room and a half away. The dining room was a large lavish room adjacent to the study. The walls were a deep dark victorian wallpaper, vines overlapping and interweaving, with white flowers. Above them a frescoed ceiling with a chandelier— smaller than the one hanging above the entryway. This one had clear drop crystals and was every inch as tacky as the entryway one.

Her father glanced between the them, then cleared his throat. " _So_ ," he began. "The park cleanup effort had its first major milestone today."

Pamela swirled her soup. "Yes. We recruited a good number of volunteers."

Sam wanted to roll her eyes, but she was impressed that they had actually done something. "Why do you guys even care about the park?" she asked.

"This town is our home now, sweetheart," her father said. "Shouldn't we take care of our home?"

Sam's eyes darted around the dining room. "I suppose," she said, thinking of all the ghosts and the mystery that she was intent on solving. She realized that, in her own way, she was doing her part to clean up this town too.

Her father sliced through a slab of ham, gingerly placing a piece of meat on his plate. He paused, glancing at the knife. "By the way. Why was this in your bedroom?"

The tip tilted at her. Jeremy twisted it around, light from the chandelier catching and whipping across in harsh gleams. Maybe Sam was imagining it, but there was a weird look in her father's eye— one that made her uneasy.

"I was trying to open a CD and couldn't find my scissors," she lied. "Besides, why were you poking around my room?"

Her mother stared at her, eyes wide and afraid. "Honey?"

"What?" Sam grated, catching her mother's look. "A girl can't open a CD without everyone freaking out? I'm not _stupid._ If I was cutting myself, I wouldn't just leave the knife out in the open for you guys to find." She turned her attention back to her plate, cheeks burning, knowing that little outburst had done little to convince her parents she was okay.

Her father lowered the knife back onto the platter. He shot her mother a worried look.

Sam thought grumpily that they should stop worrying so much about her and start worrying about themselves. Despite the fact that they never brought it up, Sam knew that the house was affecting them. They didn't like the unexplainable. Things moving on their own, windows opening on their own…

Her mother sighed, taking a long slip of her wine.

Sam's eyes trailed along the wine glass.

.

.

Later that night, around ten, a rock pinged off her bedroom window.

Sam spun in her desk chair, away from her computer where she had been struggling to write the introduction to her paper for the past hour. She got up and crossed her room, a small smile flitting across her face. Without looking, she hoisted the window open.

The instant she turned around and head back to her desk, she felt him gust into the room.

"You didn't even know it was me," he sputtered.

"Who else throws rocks at my window?" Sam shrugged. She glared down at her computer screen, trying to remember her train of thought, before Danny had interrupted.

"What are you up to?" he asked.

Sam motioned to her laptop. "Researching for a paper. _Attempting_ to write it, but..." She sighed and eyed him sidelong. "It's been a struggle."

Danny's gait was light and bouncy as he crossed the room. "Are you being _sentenced_ to death?" He leaned over her shoulder and she caught a whiff of cologne and smoke.

"Just because I know you're dead doesn't give you permission to joke about it all the time," Sam said.

A laugh. "No? You don't think I'm funny? Not even a little bit?"

Sam spun in her chair and leveled him with a Look, although her lip was struggling not to smile.

"Fine. I'll decease and desist." True to his word, he retreated and settled into the armchair near her record player, shutting up.

Still feeling his eyes on the back of her head, Sam tried to go back to her paper. What had she been writing again? With a groan, she gave up. Danny's presence really didn't promote getting things done. She studied him, then threw her pen back down on her desk. "The skull in the woods isn't yours."

He raised a brow. _"Hmm,"_ he murmured, picking up a book off her bedside table— _Dracula_ — flipping through it idly.

"It belongs to some forty-year-old dude," Sam continued.

Danny's eyes flickered. "Really?"

"Really. But you already knew that." Sam kicked her feet out and crossed them at the ankles, elbow on her desk, chin in her palm. "You want to know what _I_ think?"

An amused smile touched his lips. His eyes swept up from the book, catching hers. "I _always_ want to know what you're thinking."

Sam couldn't help but smile at that. She drummed her fingers along her lips and leaned forward in her desk chair conspiratorily. "I think it's Skulker's," she whispered.

Danny returned his attentions to her book. "You're only halfway there," he teased. "You haven't even gotten to the good parts yet." He plucked out her bookmark and waggled it at her.

"That's all you have to say for yourself?"

"I had to read this in high school. It was either _Dracula_ or _Pride & Prejudice_. Not a great choice, you know?"

Sam jutted her chin. "Woodward High School?"

He let out a surprised gust of air. "Go Wolves. Not that I graduated," he admitted, eyeing her appraisingly. A genuine smile tugged at his lips. _"You_ have been digging. Didn't I warn you against digging up stuff you can't put back? Some things don't like being buried again."

"Like you?" Sam quipped.

He pulled a face.

Sam's eyes did such an enormous eye roll they almost sprained themselves. "Don't lie. I can tell you're happy I figured out your high school." She gestured at him with a flick of her fingers.

He snapped the book shut and put it back where he found it. "So. What's your paper about?"

Even though she knew that there were certain things Danny couldn't talk about— ghost curse and all— it didn't make it any less frustrating. At least she knew she was marching down the right path. He wouldn't have clammed up otherwise. If it _was_ Skulker's skull, it made his death all that more humiliating. The hunter, hunted, his own severed head nailed above his fireplace mantle next to those of his animal victims. A rather poetic end, Sam thought darkly.

Realizing Danny wasn't about to give her any more clues, she blew out a breath, ruffling her bangs, then turned back to her desk to consider her laptop.

"I'm writing about racism in the 1950's," Sam explained, avoiding his gaze. Truthfully, she was writing about him, and the other missing children— race being just one of the many themes. "Did you know that Elvis borrowed his style from black musicians? And yet, none of the artists he was inspired by made nearly as much as him?" she asked. "Big Mama Thorton, Muddy Waters, Billie Holiday, Jackie Wilson, Sam Cooke… Anyway, I've been listening to them."

Sam tapped _'Play'_ on a YouTube video. With a slow lumbering piano riff, Sam Cooke's _Bring It On Home To Me_ erupted from her speakers.

A stunned look crossed Danny's face. "It sounds like he's right here. How is that possible?"

Sam gestured to her expensive speakers. "Gift for my sixteenth birthday."

He took a step towards one and tilted his head as if he had never seen something quite like it before. He'd had a similar reaction to her iPhone and her laptop. "I haven't heard this song in forever," he mentioned.

"I hadn't really heard it until— No. _Don't_ ," Sam warned, seeing as Danny had started to sing along. Horribly. She crossed her arms and glowered at him.

He shot her a grin and picked her hairbrush off her desk, holding it out in front of her lips like a microphone.

"I don't sing," she drawled, having to raise her voice to be heard over the music. She got up and tried to yank her brush out of his hand, but he danced away.

He held the brush to his lips. " _If you ever change your mind, about leaving, leaving me behind,"_ he crooned into it.

"You're so dumb."

Danny raised his eyebrows at her, but didn't stop. If anything his grin widened the more he realized how annoyed she was. He danced circles around her, intentionally clipping her shoulder each time he passed, until Sam felt the corners of her mouth twitch. His good mood was infectious.

"Everybody sings and dances, Boots. Even you," Danny told her in between refrains. "I know you, remember? You can't fool me."

"Yeah? Well I _don't_ dance," Sam maintained. "Punks headbang. Preferably to metal." She gripped her elbows hard as Danny tossed her brush onto her bed and tried to grab her hands. He tugged her back and forth, rotating her upper body, yet Sam planted her feet obstinately.

He lugged her around the floor like hauling around a wet cat. "Work with me here. I feel like I'm moving furniture," he complained.

"Let _go,_ " Sam hissed. She glanced once around the room, not sure what she was looking for.

"No one's here but us and I'm easily the most embarrassing," Danny pouted. "Don't be such a square."

Sam's arms loosened. She flushed.

He looped his arm around her waist and his hand enveloped hers, and she was rocking, eyes widening, room spinning. She stumbled along, but each time she went the wrong way or nearly fell his hand was there, scooping her up, guiding her. Sam stopped thinking so hard about it and just let him lead. He wasn't great, but he wasn't bad. Someone had taught him the basics of how to… whatever this was. Waltz? Swing? Slow dance? Her thoughts floated to the prom ticket. She wondered if he had gotten the chance to go; if he had danced like this, and who he had danced with. Had she been pretty? Had she liked to dance? Had she been his girlfriend?

His face was inches from hers— freckles moon dust, blue eyes crystalline and playful. There was a ring of green in them that she had never noticed before, which undulated and flickered like solar flares of a sun. The world lazily orbited around them. Like were the center of their own universe. Sam wanted to know what he had been like however-many years ago— before death had sucked the warmth from him. She could only assume he had been kind and vibrant. The more she hung out with him, the more she saw this sillier, carefree person peeking through. Someone who had childlike curiosity for the world, who genuinely liked people, who didn't mind making of fool of themselves for a bit of fun.

Was he— as she suspected— that missing boy her grandmother told her of? Did he have a lot of friends who missed him? Had his parents ever stopped looking for him? His sister? What had been his plans before his life had been cut short? His dreams?

Sam found him staring at her curiously. She swallowed all those questions and got back to enjoying this moment for what it was— ephemeral, beautiful.

Danny's hands were cold, skin smooth and strange to the touch. He twirled her once and brought her back, singing in her ear. _"You know I'll always be your slave, till I'm buried, buried in my grave."_

 _"Bring it to me,"_ Sam begrudgingly sang along. _"Bring your sweet loving, bring it on home to me."_

 _"Yeah,"_ Danny called.

 _"Yeah,"_ Sam answered.

The green ring in Danny's eyes twinkled mischievously. He probably thought he had won. Sam guessed he had.

In a sudden bold movement, Danny dipped her.

Having never been dipped before, Sam yelped and flailed, one arm windmilling out, nearly hitting him in the face. The momentum toppled them and they fell in a sprawled heap.

"Whoops," he laughed somewhere near her ear.

"You could have warned me."

He pulled back and looked down at her, grinning. "No offense, but you're not the best dancer."

Sam swallowed as she realized he was practically on top of her. Her stomach traveled up her throat. She thought idly to herself that this must be what being seventeen _should_ feel like. To laugh and dance and sing and not care; to smile until soreness.

Then her bedroom door slammed open.


	20. If I Had Three Wishes

.

〰〰〰

 **20**

If I Had Three Wishes

〰〰〰

Her mother stood in the doorway, rigid, face reddened and splotched from one too many glasses of wine. "What are you doing in my daughter's room?"

Sam flushed. This looked really bad. Danny was sprawled on top of her, on her bedroom floor, music going full blast as if to drown out any incriminating noise... Not to mention they were out of breath from dancing. They both scrambled to their feet. "Mom. Stop. This isn't what it looks like." She held up a hand.

Pamela stormed into the room and yanked out the speaker by the wall chord, music sputtering out. She pointed an accusing finger at Danny. "Let me tell you what _it looks like_ , Samantha Jean," she raged. "This boy has been sneaking around without our permission, into your room, in the middle of the night, and you two are doing _god knows what_ —"

Oh _hell._ "Mom— we're _friends._ "

Danny edged away. His face rearranged from shock to wariness then settled on embarrassment. A blush crept across the back of his neck and the apple of his cheeks. "It's not like that, Mrs. Manson," he reassured.

"Aren't you the neighbor boy?" Pamela continued. Sam could smell the sour scent of wine rolling off her as she puffed her way into Danny's personal space, face inches from his. She was roughly the same height in her heels. "Obviously Evelyn doesn't keep a close enough eye on you."

Danny blinked. He leaned back. "I should leave," he said.

"I'm not through with you yet," Pamela growled.

Dread suddenly ignited in Sam's stomach. Hot. Bubbly. Awful. She took a step forward to get in between. "Just go," she whispered to Danny. "She's drunk."

When neither of them moved, Sam attempted to grab her mom's arm to yank her back. Pamela swatted it away. It was nothing, just a small swipe, and a clumsy one at that, but Danny's eyes narrowed.

 _"Don't touch her."_ His order was a hot prod of protectiveness inside Sam's head, and although Sam couldn't see his lips, she suspected they hadn't moved. It was like that bark he had emitted in the forest; more telepathic than anything else.

Her mother paused, and Sam thought she must have noticed something was off about him by now, but no— she was _laughing._ "You presume to tell me what I can and can't do? After you sneak into _my_ house?" Her eyes hardened and she leaned forward.

Danny gaze darted to the floor as he muttered mutinously under his breath. Sam thought he said something like: _It's not your house._ Then he glanced over at the window, no doubt plotting his escape.

Her mother must have taken that glance as Danny ignoring her, which was the one thing Pamela Manson could _not_ stand. She snapped in the air to get his attention like snapping at a waiter.

Danny flinched, _hard,_ at the noise.

"Are you ignoring me?" Pamela sputtered. "What kind of savages raised you?"

Danny's eyes eclipsed. He was no longer eyeing her mother like an annoyance. More like a mountain lion methodically tracking his prey. That ring of green was bright and still, unwavering, locked and trained to Pamela's face. "My mom and dad were _great_ parents," he bristled.

"They must not have taught you any manners," Pamela slurred. Which Sam knew was ludicrous. Danny came from a time of old-fashioned ideals and chivalry. He was, if anything, _too_ polite. Pamela reached out and poked Danny in the chest. "You disrespectful _brat_."

 _"Mom,"_ Sam warned. This was not a fight her mother could win.

The air hummed low. Danny took a swift step forward and Pamela stumbled back. The lights dimmed, then flickered. With each discharge a resounding _pop_ followed like the bulb was blowing out.

Sam breathed out slowly. Her heart drummed in her chest. Danny had that tense coyote stance again, and while Sam knew to hold her ground against him, her mother did not. "Mom, whatever you do, don't act afraid," Sam stated as calmly as she could. She edged her way between the two of them.

Pamela blinked rapidly, face slack. She looked like she had just taken a cold shower _._ Her head swiveled up at ceiling, at the failing light, and she shivered.

"You are not allowed to judge my parents. You have no _idea_ what my family went through _,_ " the gravekeeper— because Sam refused to believe this was _her_ Danny— declared.

Pamela backpedaled. "Leave, just, please leave… whatever you are… _Please…"_ Her voice warbled in fear.

The gravekeeper's cataract-filled eyes took on a curious, hungry gleam. His head twitched to the side at an inhuman speed.

"Danny?" Sam pushed against his chest. "Don't."

Too late.

The lights went out and Sam was blind.

 _HOW SHOULD I SCARE YOU?_ a voice spoke, coming from everywhere all at once. It even came from inside Sam's head. _LIKE THIS?_

The sweater beneath Sam's palm disappeared like smoke. She gasped, feeling around in the dark, and found her desk, holding onto it like a life raft. Gales of wind ripped through her hair and smarted her cheeks. Intermittent flashes of green light strobed over and over. Each flash left an imprint behind. Sound was still there though. A thunderous whip cracked at each flash of light, mixing with her mother's screams.

Sam ducked her head and crouched onto her hands and knees. Heart thumping in her ribcage, she crawled blindly along the floor. The booming noise started slow in pace, but quickened, until it was the only thing she could hear. She wanted to scream too. Anything to drown out that god awful noise. Metallic ionized air filled her nose. Her searching hands hit a wall and she spun around and pressed her back to it, staring wide-eyed into her room, watching a series of image unfold like a damaged movie reel, frame by frame, flicking disjointedly.

 _SHOULD I SHOW YOU WHAT HE DID TO ME?_

 _Flash._ Her mother, wailing, one hand out to protect her face, one hand for the door. A shadowed creature scuttling up the wall growing impossibly tall, impossibly...

 _Flash._ A vision assaulted her. She was in a dark, damp room. It smelled strongly of chemicals. Directly across from her lay over six naked bodies, piled one atop the other as if tossed aside. Their limbs were stunted. Their faces were deformed. As if sensing an audience, their heads swiveled towards her and their bloated mouths wrenched open in unison, flies crawling out. A buzz hummed in her ears.

 _Flash._ Her room again. Papers everywhere. Her mother, halfway out the door. Chemicals still stung her nose. A twisted voice screamed inside her head, teasing, in a sing-song tone, _AM I SCARY NOW?_

 _Yes,_ Sam thought, but she didn't scream.

 _Flash._ A desk chair, upturned.

 _Flash._ Some _thing_ — glowing green eyes, white smoke, demonic smile, bounding through the door, giving chase, as if playing tag.

 _Flash._ Empty room.

Sam was frozen. The floor underneath her palms shuddered as something heavy thudded, several times. The lights popped back on and the noise abruptly stopped. Sam breathed shallowly, eyes wide, staring dazedly around at her room. She felt like she had just experienced something akin to whiplash.

"Mom?" she called. She found her feet and got up, rushing into the hallway. _"Mom?"_

Danny was at the top of the staircase. He was looking at his hands as if he couldn't quite believe they were his. He glanced up as she approached, face wracked with guilt. "Sam. I'm _so_ sorry—"

A groan resounded from downstairs.

Sam tore her gaze off Danny to the bottom of the stairs where her mother was sprawled in a heap. One leg bent, the other still on the last step. With another pained moan, Pamela attempted to roll over, before giving up and collapsing back onto her back.

Rage consumed her. "What did you _do?"_

He reeled back, like _he_ was afraid of _her._ "I didn't mean to. Didn't want to. I couldn't— I can't—" Words failed him for a moment, before he let out a shaky breath. "I didn't know she'd run for the stairs, Sam. _Honest._ "

"Get out," Sam croaked.

"Sam—"

"Get _OUT!_ " Sam charged at him, prepared to do _whatever_ to get to her mother, to protect her.

She didn't have to.

His face twisted, like something inside him shattered at her words, and he vanished, beginning at his toes, ending at his eyes.

Sam flew through the cold air pocket he left behind, down the stairs, taking them two at a time, landing heavily next to her mother's prone form. She knelt down beside her and reached out a hesitant hand on her mother's shoulder.

Pamela's eyes were glazed and wide, face deathly pale. Her hair was swiveled about her head, half falling out of rollers. Her thin shoulders looked waif-like in her nightgown. Her palm pressed down against the boards, knuckles white, as if to get her bearings.

Sam threw a panicked look around the landing. "Dad?" she called up the staircase. _"DAD!?"_

"He's out running an errand," Pamela said.

"You're…okay?" Sam exhaled, releasing some of her tension.

Her mother sat up fully and stared at Sam. She clutched at her chest, above her heart. "What happened?" she asked faintly.

"You don't remember…?" Sam cut herself off, seeing her mother's blank look, realizing that her mother honestly had no idea. She felt a flood of relief. "You fell down the stairs," Sam supplied. "Are you okay?"

Pamela blinked several times before getting her hands underneath her, then her feet. She stood woozily and used the wall to support her for a second, then straightened. "I'm fine," she muttered, waving at Sam's concerned hands drunkenly. "Too much wine. Must have been... It's all… fuzzy... I'm going to bed."

Pamela made her way up the stairs.

Sam remained long after her mother had gone. She stayed there for god knows how long, staring at the spot Pamela had fallen.

Hot, rampant emotions started to creep through her shock as she tried to digest all she had just seen. She knew she had just been witness to a sliver of Danny's darker half— that hellish creature that had chased her mother in a carefree, cavalier way.

Sam shivered. When the lights had gone out she had been scared. Really, truly, scared.

The front door unlocked behind her and Sam jumped. A soft yelp flew out of her mouth before she could stop it. She whipped around, but it was just her dad.

"You're still up?" Jeremy queried, kicking off his shoes and shrugging out of his coat. He hung the jacket up on the wrought-iron coat rack and paused, eyeing Sam. "What's wrong?"

Sam blew out a breath and tried to get a hold of herself. She had faced plenty of freaky things since moving into this mansion, but none of it had felt like this. Nothing had shaken her up quite like this. She had thought Danny was different— good, silly, caring.

"Sam?" her father puzzled. His face grew concerned. "What happened?"

Sam mouthed wordlessly, feeling like she had tossed her stomach down that black hole of her dreams, and could feel it dropping, tumbling, spinning, seemingly infinitely. The force of its fall sucked the air from her lungs.

"Mom fell down the stairs. You should check on her," was all she could manage.

.

.

She spent the night staring at her ceiling, dark thoughts whirling around in her head. She knew that Danny had been telling the truth about not meaning to hurt her mother, but she couldn't decide if what he did was forgivable or not. She had done her own fair share of unforgivable things to people, but this was her _mother,_ and even though they had been on pretty poor terms for the past week, it was her _mother_ Danny had essentially chased down. What if he did that to her? Had she been wrong all along to trust him?

When her alarm clock went off, Sam was already dressed. She shot a hand out, smacked it, grabbed her backpack, and took to the stairs. Landing on the last step, Pamela's voice drifted from the kitchen. "This is all too much!" she was saying. "You didn't need to do this."

Sam's hand relaxed on the banister. Relief soothed away some of the her tension. Her mother was up and seemingly okay. She could hear the drone of the morning news murmuring from the kitchen TV and the crackle of eggs cooking. The scent of breakfast spiraled through the air.

"It's the least I could do," a different voice intoned silkily. "The boy is troubled and confused."

Sam stiffened. She stumbled to a halt, her heart jolting right up her throat. That voice was familiar. Sam pressed her back against the wall and edged along it until she hit the doorframe leading into the kitchen. As discreetly as possible, Sam peeked around the corner.

"I don't even remember what happened," her mother laughed to someone, apron on, spatula waving wildly in one hand. Her hair was back into its perfect curled bob.

Near her mother, in a vase on the counter by the stove, sat a bouquet of enormous lilies. Their petals were so white they shone and refracted light, pearly and otherworldly.

"I promise to keep a tighter leash on him," the other woman joked.

Sam caught a slice of a dark-skinned woman with rambunctious curly hair. Evelyn Gray. In their kitchen.

Sam leaned away from the door and pressed the back of her head against the wall, glancing up at the ceiling, breathing shallowly. Now that she had seen what a ghost could do, her gut reaction was to run. She turned and started to creep back down the hallway away from the kitchen. At the front door, she lay her palm on the handle, and realized she couldn't just leave her mother in the house alone with a ghost. Not that Sam could do much to protect her— that much was evident from last night— but still, Sam couldn't just walk away.

With gritted teeth, she turned on her heel and marched straight into the kitchen.

 _"—Thanks, Lance. the mood in Amity Park is tense as news spreads about a severed head—"_ the TV chattered.

"Sammy!" her mother beamed. "Just in time for breakfast."

Sam eyed her mother suspiciously. She was being way too friendly after breathing down Sam's neck all week. She almost said something about it, but faced Evelyn instead. "Why are you here?" she blurted.

Evelyn's almond-shaped eyes blinked. She raised her hands up to her maroon scarf, readjusting it against her neck.

Sam's eyes trailed along it uneasily.

"I just came by to deliver some flowers," Evelyn stated. She sent Sam a lovely smile, her cheeks dimpling right underneath the hollows of her cheeks.

In the photo on Officer Gray's desk, Evelyn had been so full of warmth her skin practically sizzled. This woman was drawn and pale, her movements eccentric and… _quirky._ The jerky mannerisms were inherently _not right_. Like Evelyn had no actual body, so she was fabricating this illusion from memory; only, she had spent so much time away from a physical body she had forgotten how they moved. Now she moved alien.

Sam broke into an exaggerated smile. "Well, you delivered them." Sam gestured to the vase. "You can leave now." She gestured to the door.

"Samantha!" Pamela admonished. She brandished her spatula, bits of egg flicking across the counter. "Apologize."

Evelyn's smile wobbled at Sam's crassness. She straightened, expression pinched, and raised her hand up to soothe Pamela. "It's fine, dear." Her gaze narrowed on Sam. "I found Danny, thanks to you."

"Don't you mean 'no thanks to you'?" Sam retorted.

Evelyn paused. Then, she pushed off the countertop with her elbow and made her way leisurely to the kitchen door leading to the back porch. Her fingertips trailed along the counter in threatening way. The door was unlocked and ajar. Sam guessed her mother had seen the flowers and had let Evelyn in without a second thought.

"I knew I could count on you to break his heart," Evelyn said. She smiled again and no matter how much Sam dissected it, she could only find genuine warmth.

Sam's breath stuttered and caught in her chest. "What do you mean?"

Evelyn was already out the door.

 _"—excuse me Detective, do we know yet if the man in the woods was murdered?—"_ Tiffany Snow, of Q13 Amity Park News asked upon the TV.

"What do you mean?" Sam yelled after Evelyn.

 _"—No comment—"_

"Why are you shouting?" her mother asked, nonplussed. "Beautiful flowers, don't you think?"

* * *

— Diary Entry VII—

Saturday August 18th, 1962

Someone came forward with information, hoping to collect Vlad's reward money. They said they saw a boy matching Danny's description in their neighbor's window. Police showed up. Wasn't Danny. Another dead end.

.

Saturday August 18th, 1962

Vlad was taken in for questioning. The only reason Danny would drive to Amity is to see him and revisit childhood haunts, but Vlad says Danny never called or stopped by. Samples of Vlad's door handle and the doorbell were taken. Danny's fingerprints weren't found. Police let Vlad go.

Search continues.

.

Sunday August 19th, 1962

Johnny went home. He has school on Monday. I should go to school too, but I can't leave my family. Vlad said we can stay with him for as long as we need.

.

Sunday August 19th, 1962

Officer Gray took a man into custody. They won't tell us his name. He's the gas attendant that last saw Danny— a recreational hunter, previously convicted for assault and animal abuse. He left work early the day Danny disappeared to hunt, and has no alibi for that night.

My parents are just excited the police have arrested someone. I don't think they care who.

.

Monday August 20th, 1962

Dreamt that Danny was hiding underneath my bed this entire time. Woke up and checked. He wasn't there. Sometimes I wake up and think I hear his voice. Stress is getting to me.

.

Monday August 20th, 1962

They let him go.

Dad found out the guy's name is Benjamin Skulker through the local paper. Skulker took a polygraph test. Said he saw Danny but didn't kill him, and it came back the truth.

Dad doesn't believe it and fought with Detective Gray. He's not endearing himself to the police.

I think Dad might do something terrible to Skulker. He thinks Skulker has Danny and he won't let it go. I'm scared I'll lose more than a brother by the end of this.


	21. I'd Put A Spell On You

.

〰〰〰

 **21**

I'd Put a Spell on You

〰〰〰

Four days passed without Danny - a stretch that made her notice how often they used to hang out. Despite her still simmering anger at the ghost, her chest ached in his absence.

Halloween was tomorrow. Sam had missed the memo about wearing a costume to school. Milling about on the cement school steps were a host of different ghouls and monsters. A ladybug chatted with a black cat to the left of the entrance. To her right a group of girls, all dressed as different Fanta flavors, strolled by, laughing, arm in arm. Sam stared.

"Spirit Club Halloween Gala, tomorrow night," someone called, loudly, from behind her. "Eight PM, at the abandoned hospital."

Sam found Star handing out leaflets. The girl shot her a glance and then held out one of the flyers. "You're coming," she stated. "Right?"

Sam thought of Tucker's aversion to Spirit Club and tried to edge her way out of this. They had just gotten back on the right foot. "Actually, I'm pretty grounded right now," Sam said , seeing as grounding was her best excuse. It wasn't a total lie. "I don't think I'll be able to go out..."

Star's eyebrows raised. She waved the paper at Sam, like, 'take the thing already.'

Sam grabbed it grudgingly.

"Great," Star said. She sent Sam a small smile, then meandered away in search of potential party-goers.

Sam looked at the paper in her hands. It was on plain white printer paper. In bold dripping black type, the name of the party was written, along with the address, the date, and the time. Costumes required. There was a photo of the abandoned hospital. The printer had smudged some of the details in the fence, making the stark building appear to be surrounded by some kind of forcefield.

Sam tucked the paper into her bag, locked her bike up, and walked inside. As she walked past, students sent skirted glances her way. They had been doing this ever since Paulina had spilled her address. Most of the glances were curious.

Sam ignored them and shoved her books in her locker.

Tucker sidled up next to her. He had on an eyepatch with a mechanical eye glued onto it, which roved around independent of his other eye. His left arm was covered in cardboard that he had spray painted silver to make it resemble a robotic arm. "Guess what I am," he challenged, chest puffed out.

Sam eyed him, noting he had even drawn little screws into each of the fake metal plates. "A cross between Mad Eye Moody and Ironman?" she guessed.

Tucker paused. "What? No!" Gesturing at his whole costume, he sent her an incredulous look. "No. I'm Cyborg. From the Justice League? …Teen Titans? _C'mon._ "

Sam shrugged, unfamiliar.

Tucker sighed.

"I'm wearing a costume too." Sam leaned against the locker, a spark in her eye.

"Oh yeah?" Tucker raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. His lone eye darted around her outfit, which was the same outfit she wore everyday. "Fine. I'll bite. What are you?"

Sam slammed her locker shut and turned her head to the side. Her lip curled into a dark smirk. "I'm an advanced Artificial Intelligence unit from the future. I've been sent back in time to ensure that humanity invents my robotic ancestors," Sam told him, voice low and serious like she was telling him some sort of Matrix-level conspiracy. "I am SAAM. Self Aware AutoMatron. I'm not the only one of my kind at this school. Although, trying to identify another SAAM unit is impossible." Sam leaned in and winked slowly. "We look just like everybody else."

Tucker's one eye expanded, bug-like. "That was the sexiest thing I've ever heard."

Sam pulled a face. "Ew, Tucker. Just— _Ew._ "

Tucker chuckled.

They took off down the hallway together. Tucker paused when he reached the door to his first period class. "I heard on the news this morning that that skull you found belongs to an older guy," he said, robotic eye quivering. "Guess it doesn't belong to your ghost kid."

Sam's smile fell at the mention of Danny. Her thoughts cascaded, swirling around the image of her mother at the base of the stairs, and of Evelyn all peppy and triumphant. Sam didn't like how bold Evelyn was getting, nor how happy she was that Sam and Danny were no longer on speaking terms. Now that she was reminded of what happened, she felt all the mirth and humor drain from her. Her shoulders slumped.

Tucker misinterpreted her sudden bad mood. "Don't worry. I'm super close to cracking into the DMV. I wouldn't be surprised if we land Phantom's real name this week," Tucker said in an attempt to cheer her up.

"That's great." She opened her mouth, intent on spilling what happened between Danny and her mother, but Tucker had already yanked open the door to his class and walked through.

.

.

Sam was halfway to the cafeteria with her bag lunch in hand, when she heard the voices arguing. She paused. The hallway was devoid of students. The muffled voices rose up again, coming from the door to her left.

Cautiously, she snuck over and peered through the glass window. It was the band room. Rows of metal stands and plastic chairs lined the carpeting. In the space where the conductor stood was Valerie, without costume, arguing red-faced with a tall curvy girl in a witch outfit. The girl had her back to her, but Sam knew by the perfect hair and figure that it was Paulina.

"Give it back," Valerie spat. She lunged for Paulina, reaching her hands out for something, but Paulina did a hop-skip backwards, narrowly avoiding her. The maneuver made Paulina's pointed hat droop.

"What's in here that's _so_ important to you?" Paulina provoked. She held up Valerie's backpack and flicked the zipper cattishly. Sam didn't have to see her face to know that Paulina was smirking.

"Give it _back,"_ Valerie repeated, angrier this time, voice wavering like she was three seconds away from ruining Paulina.

Sam's went for the door handle— she stopped herself. This is what had gotten her in trouble at her last school. Did she _really_ want to see that look of disappointment on her parent's faces? That expression her mother had worn— the sad-lost one that quietly said, _'I don't know what to do with you anymore. I don't even know you.'_ — Sam had told herself a million times that look hadn't mattered to her. Never changed the fact that it did.

In the band room, Valerie let out a frustrated growl and lunged again, this time grabbing hair.

Paulina shrieked, her hat pitching off her head. She flailed, but kept her grip on the backpack, holding it backwards away from Valerie's clawing fingers.

A large brutish shape stepped forward: Baxter. He grabbed the hand entangled in Paulina's hair and twisted it, making Valerie cry out and let go.

Valerie stumbled back, tucking her arm into her chest.

"Crazy bitch!" Paulina hissed unzipping the backpack.

Sam scowled, unable to see what was inside the bag from her angle outside the door.

"Don't try that again, Gray. Or _else,_ " Dash ordered. He took a menacing step forward, muscles bulging in full male bravado.

Valerie ignored Dash, her gaze stuck on the backpack, lip twitching, eyes wild. Sam could tell she was scared and a little desperate.

That's it. Sam couldn't bear to sit by any longer. Valerie and her had their own issues, and what Valerie had done was by no means forgiven, but the way Paulina was mocking her was wrong. Even though Sam was certain that Valerie hated anyone taking pity on her, the fact of the matter was this kind of bullying was cruelty. Besides, the sight of Baxter laying a hand on _anyone_ was enough to make Sam's blood boil. She stepped into the room, letting the door close loudly behind her. "Why don't you give Valerie her backpack back?"

Paulina held a dirty toy rocket in one hand, the backpack in the other. Her smile curled predatorily. "Do you know what this is, Goth Girl?" She waved the rocket.

Sam's eyes flicked from the rocket to Valerie, who had gone deathly pale. "A toy?" Wasn't Valerie supposed to be the deranged person here? Why was Paulina giving her that look?

Paulina stared at her, then released a single breathless ' _ha!'_. "It's a _relic_ ," she said emphatically, twisting the rocket around in the light.

With more attention, Sam appraised it again. It was a small metal cylinder with three wings attached near the base, it's nose curved into a point. A piece of tape on it was adhered on the side with an address scribbled in Sharpie, but beyond _'IF FOUND',_ the letters were unreadable from a distance. It didn't look like much… no glowing, no humming, nothing remotely magical.

"It's _mine_ ," Valerie cut.

Paulina ignored her. She waggled the backpack at Sam. "There are others in here. Valerie has been hoarding them. Been toting them around this whole time to keep the ghosties away." Paulina shot Valerie a sideways glare. "Rude, much? Friends are supposed to share."

"We stopped being friends years ago," Valerie retorted.

Paulina held the rocket higher. "I think you and I both know who this _really_ belongs to."

Flinching, Valerie lurched for Paulina like a cornered animal.

Dash grabbed Valerie by the shoulder and flung her backwards into a music stand. As her shoulder clipped it, the legs flipped out, tangling her feet, making her fall. With a resounding _CLANG,_ the stand toppled to the floor.

Dash loomed over Valerie.

 _No._ Sam saw red and moved. In three strides she was on Dash's back, arms wrapped around his neck and hanging behind him. She forced him to stumble a few steps away from Valerie.

"Guh—" he muttered stupidly. "Get _off!"_

Sam realized belatedly how tiny she was in comparison to Dash and that attacking him had been a bad idea. His muscles shifted underneath her grip. Her eyes widened as he whipped around, attempting to shake her off like a dog shook off water.

Blindly, Dash threw a punch backwards that connected with the side of her head.

Her ear popped and her head exploded in pain. With a cry, she let go and tumbled into a plastic chair, toppling it over and sprawling to the floor.

Stars danced in front of her eyes. She shook her head, trying to clear it. Preparing to launch herself back up and defend herself, Sam grunted and slammed her hand to the ground. _Quick,_ before Dash could get on top of her—she paused at the sight before her.

Valerie was up again, her body in between Sam and Dash, looking murderous. She planted her feet and swung her arm out fast as a cobra strike.

There was a loud crunch, followed by a howl, ending with a voice yelling incredulously, _"Fight Club!_ What is going on here?!"

Dash crumpled onto the ground, clutching at his nose. Blood seeped between his fingers.

Valerie blinked, her fists still raised. Blood smeared across her right knuckles.

Mr. Lancer glowered at the three of them from the door and flipped the lightswitch. With a low hum the fluorescents popped on and Sam felt exposed and immature.

"Lancer, sir— she hit me!" Dash whined. "You saw it!"

"I saw enough," Lancer stated gravely. "You three, principal's office." Lancer paused, appraising Baxter's bloody face. "Actually, Baxter, head to the nurse. You two, follow me."

Where was Paulina? Sam looked around for the girl, but she was missing. Missing just like Valerie's backpack full of relics.

.

.

"I didn't need your help," Valerie harped underneath her breath. The girl slumped in her chair, her knee bobbing up and down nervously, arms crossed, dark glower about her face. "I had it handled. Why can't you stay _away?"_

Sam crossed her arms as well, situated across from Valerie in her own chair. There was about three feet of hallway separating them. She eyed Valerie and shrugged. "Believe it or not, getting involved in one of your fights wasn't on my to do list," she snarked. The last place Sam wanted to be was in a chair across from Valerie Gray, outside the principal's office, awaiting her punishment.

Valerie's knee stopped bouncing for a second. Her eyes narrowed. "Why did you, then?" she questioned.

Sam glanced down at her boots, then towards the door to the principal's office. She ground her teeth together and pulled her shoulders up to her ears, shrugging again. She couldn't very well say that defending people was knit into her DNA. Or that it had tipped her over the edge seeing Paulina and Dash torment Valerie like that. Instead she said, "I _abhor_ Dash Baxter." Sam glanced over and caught Valerie's eye.

Valerie's stoic face broke into a sly grin and she snorted, nodding appreciatively. "I feel that."

Sam sighed and pressed her head to the wall. "So, is it true? What Paulina said? About you hoarding relics?"

Valerie tensed. She blinked, as if remembering she was without her backpack, then her face crumbled. All that strength and tenacity faded away, leaving behind the broken Valerie that skulked around hallways. "I need that backpack," she said, more to herself. "They'll find me without it." Her hand clutched at the locket around her neck.

Sam fell silent, watching as Valerie tucked her knees closer to herself and pressed her face into them, cutting herself off. A thread of hate pulsed through her at the thought that Paulina had stolen the one thing that kept Valerie's terror at bay.

Sam frowned. Why would Paulina steal the backpack in the first place? Paulina loved ghosts. Her personal vendetta centered around finding one, so why would she be after relics?

"Manson?"

Sam was yanked from her thoughts. She peered up at Principal Ishiyama, a small plump Japanese woman with a severe bun, who was looking at her in a guarded way that made it impossible to know if she was mad. "Follow me," she clipped.

.

.

Her father sent a stern look her way via the rearview mirror. "You're lucky you only got detention," he muttered. "I know kids that've gotten suspended for less. What happened?"

Sam ducked her gaze, knowing full well she deserved this lecture. "Dash attacked Valerie, another girl at school."

Her father's gaze darkened, lingering on her reddened cheek. His grip strained against the steering wheel. "I should have a word with this Dash kid," he growled protectively.

"Baxter is a complete asshat," she muttered. "Having words with him won't change that. If anything it'll make it worse."

"Language, young lady."

Sam rolled her eyes.

Her father rolled his right back and Sam couldn't help but laugh at how ridiculous it looked. It hurt to smile or open her mouth too wide. Her head pounded from Dash's punch; her cheek sore and swollen. It would probably turn into a fat bruise by tomorrow morning.

"This isn't funny, Samantha," he scolded, although Sam could tell he was struggling not to smile. "Someone broke that boy's nose. "

Sam gazed out the window distractedly. She plopped her chin in her palm. While Sam had scraped by with detention, Valerie and Dash had both gotten two day suspensions.

Her father glanced up at her. "No more fights," he ordered, "and you're grounded."

"I'm _already_ grounded," Sam stated blithely.

"Yeah? Well, then I'll just have to…" Jeremy rapped his fingers along the steering wheel, then slumped. Sam guessed he had come to the conclusion that none of their punishments worked. "Look," he said, voice soft. "Your mother is going through a rough patch. We all are. I'd really appreciate it if you'd at least try to avoid fights? At least pretend to follow curfew?"

Sam ran her tongue along the back of her teeth. She sighed, "Alright."

Her phone buzzed.

Sam dug around in the front of her backpack. She didn't have many friends that she texted besides Tucker. Maybe he noticed her absence after third period or heard rumors of the fight.

 _Valerie Gray wants to be your friend._

Sam stared down at the line of text hard enough that the letters blurred together. Valerie, the girl that had threatened her, was friending her? In a daze, Sam unlocked her phone and accepted the request. Immediately a new message popped up.

V: _I couldn't find your phone number. I know what Paulina is going to do with the relics._

Sam blinked. Slowly, deliberately, feeling like this whole exchange was happening in one of her kaleidoscopic dreams, she typed, 'What?'

V: _She's going to burn them at her Halloween party._

Another message slotted in underneath the last.

V: _She wants to get rid of anything that will stop the ghosts. We can't let her do that._

Sam scowled. We? _We?_ Since when were they a team?

Valerie must have read her mind.

V: I mean _YOU can't let her do that._

S: _Why me?_

V: _You're invited to the party._

Sam leaned back in her seat in realization. Valerie wanted her to sneak into the party and… what? Stop Paulina from performing some kind of weird half-assed summoning ritual? Or, avoiding that, go the party, find the backpack full of relics, and somehow smuggle it out without getting caught? Sam thought of what would happen should Paulina or one of the A-List catch her. She pulled at her seatbelt, feeling claustrophobic.

"Who are you texting?" her father asked, genuinely curious. It wasn't often that Sam held a conversation on the phone.

"Tucker," Sam deflected. She crafted another message.

S: _Why should I help you?_

Pause. A lot of typing.

V: _Because 1. Between the two of us, you're the one that needs those relics most.  
_ V: _2\. The A-List likes you.  
_ V: _3\. You have the guts to pull it off. And  
_ V: _4\. It's your fault the ghosts are back at it again in the first place._

Sam thought she made some good points. Especially now that Danny and her were on shaky ground, seeing as he had been shielding her from the brunt of the ghosts antics, getting her hands on those relics sounded like a great plan. She didn't know if he was protecting her anymore.

S: _Fine. I'll help you get your relics back. Does this make us frenemies?_

Three little dots bounced as Valerie typed out her response. They disappeared and reappeared like Valerie was trying to figure out what to say. Then, with a _whoooosh_ , her message delivered.

 _Yes._


	22. Tonight You Belong To Me

.

〰〰〰

 **22**

Tonight You Belong To Me

〰〰〰

Sam waited until the sun dipped completely, casting her room in shadows, before she slung her bag over her shoulder and hoisted her window open. She leaned out, gazing down at the garden. She expected a pair of blue eyes waiting for her. They weren't.

Her grip tightened around the cool steel of her fire escape. She sent a glance back into her room, thoughts traveling to her parents who were getting ready for their own Halloween party. She had promised she wouldn't sneak out. Her stomach roiled guiltily as she recalled the way her father had pleaded with her in the car. With a sigh, Sam stepped back into her room and shut her window.

She left in search of her mother, finding her in her bedroom, hunched over her mirror applying fake eyelashes. Her hair was teased straight up into a beehive. It looked heavy with hairspray. She had on a long black fitted dress, black fishnet tights, and red high heels. She spotted Sam in the mirror and smiled, turning, arms outstretched. "Like it?" She grinned wide, displaying a set of realistic-looking fangs.

"You're a vampire?" Sam guessed.

Her mother hummed in reply and turned her attention back to her eyelashes.

"I got invited to a Halloween party," Sam blurted. "I want to go."

Pamela paused. "You _want_ to go," she repeated, as if Sam had just told her she was craving a steak. "You mean you _want_ have fun with your peers? At a _party?"_ She finished putting on a lash and leaned back, fanning the glue with her hand. Then a smile broke across her face. "Of course you can go."

"You'll…" Sam hesitated. "What? Really?"

"It's Halloween. Go have fun." She crossed her arms and wrinkled her nose, gesturing at Sam's outfit. "You're not going like that, though. I've got just the thing."

Pamela disappeared into her walk in closet, then came back toting a pink dress with ruffles and bows. It was tea length and had layers of taffeta that gave the skirt volume. The sweetheart neckline was lined with ruffled, layered, chiffon. She held it up and gave it a good shake, the skirt bouncing merrily.

Sam paled.

"You can be a dolly!"

"No," Sam hissed, petrified. She edged away. _"Never."_

Pamela's eyes flashed strangely. Humor drained from her face and her grip tightened around the hanger.

.

.

Sam could hear the bass from the road. Ahead of her, the old hospital was lit up. The windows glowed and flickered eerily as if the inside was on fire. A cool mist settled around the base of the building, making it feel as if it was rising up out of a cloud. The crematorium-like building didn't fit with the upbeat club music that drifted down the hill. The electronic thudding sounded like a heartbeat. Scantily costumed teens stumbling their way around the barbed-wire fence.

Sam got off her bike and cursed when her _god awful_ dress caught on the pedal. Her mother had insisted on painting her face all up too, smearing bright pink circles on her cheeks and yanking her hair into pigtails. No matter how much foundation her mother had lathered onto her eye and cheekbone, the red spot from Dash's punch peeked through. It was tender to the touch. In a day or so it would no doubt blossom into a lovely bruise.

Sam kept telling herself that Halloween was the one occasion to dress like something you're not. It was the only way she could keep herself from tearing out of this outfit.

As she locked her bike up, her phone buzzed.

V: _You there?_

S: _Unfortunately._

V: _Don't get caught._

"Thanks for that," she muttered to herself, before shoving her phone in her purse— an oversized lilac shoulder bag with pink trim and an enormous bow atop the flap. She hobbled on her mother's pink high heels— that were a half size too big— up the cement driveway. Briefly, she wondered how Paulina had managed to rent out this entire hospital, then remembered that Paulina was gorgeous and rich. She probably didn't rent this place at all. She probably got whatever she wanted. Sam thought of Danny. Well, maybe not _whatever_ she wanted.

As she neared the building she came across a pair of wide doors. Two men in suits were checking a list of invitees.

Sam fished in her purse, pulled out the invitation, and was ushered inside.

This was _not_ her scene. Her brain matter rattled as bass thudded uncomfortably in her ribs. Directly ahead of her, maybe fifty feet away, was a stage. A girl DJ dressed as a bee was situated in front of the crowd at a glowing laptop. Besides the blinding strobe lights coming from the stage, the rest of the party was so dark that it was hard to see anyone's faces clearly, and most of the faces Sam saw were obscured by masks or face paint. There were easily over a hundred people in this area alone, crowded, all dancing, yelling, and commingling.

Sam scowled. If given the choice, she didn't comingle. Too bad she didn't have a choice.

There were two doorways on either side of the dance floor that lead to separate hallways. The only way was directly through the dance floor. Sam picked the left doorway and inhaled deeply, preparing to dive into this ocean of sweaty, obnoxious students. Head hunkered, she shouldered her way forward. Arms and limbs flew everywhere. An elbow narrowly grazed her face. Someone spilled their drink on her high heels, staining them. Another student almost stepped on her foot. Panic welled in her and her shoving got desperate until, gasping for air, she popped out at the other end.

Feeling somehow violated, Sam skittered down the less populated hallway. She slunk into the wall to regain her bearings. She tilted her head to the side and spotted Star and Paulina walking towards her. The pair were linked at the elbow, both in their cheerleading uniforms. Sam quickly adverted her face. Hopefully they hadn't seen her.

Paulina shot Sam a curious look, then continued to skip past.

Sam blew out a slow breath. Silently, she thanked her mother. This frilly costume had most likely rendered her unrecognizable.

She crept down the hallway Star and Paulina had come from. The loud music and chattering faded behind her. Sam squinted, as the lights from the main stage didn't illuminate the hallway fully. Coming to a fork, Sam glanced left and right. To her right: a couple making out, pressed up against the run down hospital wall. Sam adverted her gaze and hurried left.

Ahead there was a door with a window that glowed a soft flickering amber light, like some kind of candle lay beyond it. Sam rested her palm over the handle and glanced inside. Empty.

She shoved the door open and slipped inside. The door swung shut behind her with a solid click.

On the peeling linoleum floor someone had painted a pentagram out of red paint and placed twelve slow burning candles around the symbol, which were melting and leaving behind piles of lumpy wax. Only a few of them were still lit. Sam gazed at the diagram on the floor and assumed it was red paint. Or… Or chicken blood. Sam shivered. Tearing her attention away from the circle, she pulled her flashlight out of her purse, sweeping it along the room.

It looked like it used to be a patient's room. There was a shattered window facing the street, and a door that led into an attached bathroom. Hanging from the ceiling was a curved metal rod, where a curtain had probably used to encircle a sick bed. Sam spotted a pile of party-goer's belongings.

She crossed the room, wincing at the echoing clicks of her high heels.

Sam tore through the pile, flinging away coats and backpacks that were of no interest to her. Then, underneath a thick white fur coat— no doubt Paulina's— Sam found Valerie's backpack. She paused and glanced around, making sure no one was coming, before she yanked the zipper and shone her flashlight inside.

She fished out a pair of glasses— Mikey's. A dilapidated Dr. Seuss book, a leather dog collar with the name _Cujo_ , a curious red stone, and a purple plastic toy dragon. She shoved them all in her purse. With a furrowed brow, she tore through the backpack again for the rocket, opening all the zippered pockets, digging her hand inside, but came up empty.

She dropped the backpack and sat back on her heels, stumped. The beam of her flashlight danced across the other twenty-something backpacks. There was no way she'd have time to search them all.

Sam closed her purse. Despite how full it was, it felt light and airy. The flap hummed against her palm. She recognized it— it was like when she had found the screwdriver in the attic. Five relics out of six was solid. That meant there was five ghosts that couldn't come near her right now. It had almost been too simple. Too lucky. It made her uneasy.

She decided it was best not to test her good fortune. With a quiet click, she put her flashlight away and headed for the door, intent on high-tailing it out of the party before Paulina noticed the relics were missing. She had her hand outstretched when a slice of someone's face flashed past the window. Sam gasped and whirled, melding into the wall right next to the door at the exact moment it flung open. It swung around and obscured her from view.

"Hang on. It's in my purse," a girl's voice said.

Sam held her breath, head ducked just enough to hide from the window in the door. She wondered if her high heels were visible underneath the crack. Slowly she twisted her pointer and middle finger together, making a silent wish that these girls would hurry up and grab whatever it was they needed and leave, quickly, without noticing her.

Rustling. A light darted about the floor. "Found it!"

"Let's go," the other girl complained. "This place is creepy. What's with all the candles?"

"I _told_ you Paulina goes all out with decor," her friend said.

Footsteps, walking delicately around the candles.

"Yeah but this looks, like, _real_ or something," the other girl said, voice shaky.

Her friend made a fake moaning sound. "Oh what— scared? I'm sure this is all just to freak people out."

"I don't know… Ever since Paulina and Star broke into that mansion they've been weird..." The pair of them walked out of the room, closing the door behind them. Their conversation faded.

Once she was certain they weren't coming back, Sam yanked the door open and darted into the hallway. Blood roared in her ears as she retraced her steps. She turned right at the fork and sped down the hall, the electronic music from the dance floor straight ahead pumping through her veins— then she jerked to a stop.

The spotlight onstage swiveled and pointed directly down the hallway over and over, illuminating it with flashes of vivid light. Different students in costumes stumbled about, dancing, laughing, but one person stood still amidst the chaos, watching her.

Sam's grip tightened on her purse, holding it close to her hip for safekeeping. She understood how Valerie felt in that moment. It _did_ make her feel safer knowing the relics were close. Despite her best efforts to remain calm, Sam took a step backwards as the figure walked towards her. Her body screamed to run.

The spotlight swung around again, catching his hair and the shape of his shoulders, casting rim light on his cheekbones and neck. He was wearing a mask.

Sam caught the strange scent of burned cigarettes and _something_ and frowned. "Danny," she announced, knowing that smell. The flashing strobe light brought back memories of him in her room, crawling up the walls, chasing her mother down a flight of stairs. Sam eyed him cautiously; she doubted he was here to spread good news.

He came to a halt a few feet from her. He had on an oversized purple and pink striped sweater and dark jeans. His blue eyes peered out from behind two ovals in a black velvet mask. Attached to a headband, two felt triangle ears.

He scoured her outfit up and down. Sam could tell he was trying hard not to laugh. She glared, daring him to say something.

"You're very… pink," he managed, having to raise his voice to be heard over the blaring music. "I barely recognized you."

"Wish you hadn't," Sam retorted coolly.

A muscle in Danny's cheek flinched. He nodded, like he knew he deserved that, which only made Sam more annoyed. "I know you might never forgive me, and that's fair, but I _am_ sorry. Is... Is your mom okay?" he asked.

Weirdly enough, yes. Sam would have thought that fall would have broken a bone or two, maybe given her mother a concussion, but Pamela had been bouncing around on cloud nine. She was back to her old cheery optimistic self. It was almost like that fall had cured her mom of her funk. Sam didn't tell Danny that. "Why are you here? I thought I made it clear I don't want to see you."

"Got a bad feeling about tonight," Danny admitted. "Had to check in. You ok?"

"I'm _fine,_ " she grated. Had it been anyone else, Sam would have stomped away and called it a night, but something in his tone gave her pause. "What kind of bad feeling?"

Danny hesitated, then said something, but his voice got swallowed by the roar of the party.

"What?" Sam yelled.

His eyes trailed along her cheekbone, distracted. "Did someone hit you?"

Sam rolled her eyes. She shoved past him and began to work her way through the dance floor, pointedly ignoring the fact that she could feel Danny shadowing her through the crowd. An icy hand grabbed her forearm. _"Sam."_

"What?" she shot, glancing back, pausing to take in the sight. Danny looked disconcertingly out of place amongst the DJ, strobe lights, scantily costumed girls, and artless grinding dance moves. He had never looked more dated. Even his costume, made primarily out of felt and velvet, looked old. He didn't pay attention to his surroundings, though. He bent at the waist and drew his lips to her ear, the edge of his mask brushed her cheek. A memory slammed into her— a dream— of her sitting in a chair across from a trick door. Only this time Danny didn't whisper a name in her ear. He asked, "The people you care about... Are they safe?"

Sam reeled back, peering into his eyes to see if he was joking, but there was no humor in them. They were dead. She gripped his sweater, yanking him along, until they were out of the throng of people. With her high heels her face was only a few inches below his. She leaned forward until her nose was an inch away. "What do you mean?" she hissed.

"You should check," Danny continued. His eyes darted back and forth across her face. "The dead are restless. Someone must have—" He cut off, attention diverting to something behind Sam.

Sam glanced back.

"Ghost boy. You think that mask would trick me?" Paulina purred. "How do you like my party?"

Danny blinked. He looked confused, like he hadn't realized where he was. Sam wondered what it was like being a ghost, and whether ghosts saw things in the same detail or if their view of the world was warped and fuzzy. Danny's eyes flicked around at the rowdy teenagers, the dance floor, and the over-the-top decor. His expression shifted to one of feigned shock. "I had no idea this was your scene, Polly."

Sam watched Danny's joke bounce off Paulina's forehead, ricocheting, spiralling off in a merry rubberband trajectory towards the punch bowl.

"Of course it is, silly," Paulina beamed. Her goo-goo eyes finally tore off Danny and took stock of Sam. Her smile faltered, gaze darting between the two of them, calculating, multiplying, subtracting, long dividing, and… her face suddenly cleared, then darkened. "How long have you two lovebirds been hanging out?" she asked acidly.

"We're not lovebirds," Danny and Sam chorused. They paused, looking at each other. Sam shot him a glare to say this whole predicament was his fault.

Paulina sent Sam a murderous look.

Sam genuinely dreaded the revenge Paulina was thinking up. It was bound to be publicly humiliating.

Then Paulina grinned, her eyes softening. "Well, if you two aren't together," Paulina began, cozying up to Danny, who looked dumbstruck by her cheerleading uniform and her baby giraffe eyelashes, "maybe you'd like to dance with me?" She reached out and grabbed his hand.

Danny reared, ripping his hand away with a snarl. His eyes a burned a brittle green.

Sam blinked at the way Danny had physically recoiled— almost like Paulina's touch had been painful.

Paulina's eyes grew huge and she breathed out a soft 'oh', then pulled out a rocket from her purse. "Is it this?"

From up close, Sam could read the charred label: _IF LOST RETURN TO 3765 Hyde Park Ave, Cincinnati, OH_. Sam chanted the address in her head in hopes of retaining it. She weighed the pros and cons of trying to snatch the thing out of Paulina's hand, but she probably didn't have a good chance of escaping unscathed. Sam gritted her teeth and instead turned to Danny, but he was gone.

Paulina was more than disappointed. Her glare could bezel a diamond. Storming within each eye was a supernova, exploding and collapsing, writhing in the mass of her emotion.

Paulina pointed the rocket directly at Sam like a gun. "Do you know what this is made of?"

Sam shook her head, pig tails waggling.

"Papa looked it up. This _toy_ is made out of a titanium alloy. What NASA uses to build jet engines. He told me it can withstand heat up to 5,000 degrees, meaning it is pretty indestructible. I've been trying to destroy it. It's Phantom's relic. As long as it exists it could be used to keep him away and I don't want that, but it just… won't… die..."

"You could always just mail it to China or something," Sam muttered under her breath, eyeing the rocket sidelong, thinking that it would be a good thing to have.

Paulina either ignored her or didn't hear. She raised the rocket up over her shoulder and sailed it past, mimicking the way it would arc in flight. "Do you know what _isn't_ indestructible?" she asked sweetly.

Sam gritted her teeth. Her balled fists twitched at her side, itching to reach out and steal the rocket while Paulina was taunting her with it.

 _"I_ know what isn't indestructible," Paulina whistled, eyes trained on the model, as she flew it straight at Sam's heart. Sam flinched as the pointed nose pressed hard into her chest. Paulina caught her gaze and twisted it.

You would be a fool not to understand the threat, and Sam didn't consider herself a fool.

.

.

Sam hobbled down the hill away from the party as quickly and as dignified as her mother's high heels would allow. Sweat gathered on the nape of her neck, making her shiver. Glancing down, she made sure she had her purse, and that it was still full of relics. All but one— Paulina still had Danny's rocket.

Sam yanked her hair out of the pigtails and rubbed at her scalp to rid herself of pins and needles. She scrubbed her face to wipe off the makeup, but only succeeded in smearing it.

When she reached the fence she saw a familiar face awaiting her on the other side.

"You really didn't like that rocket, huh?" Sam commented darkly as she walked past, aiming for the gate.

Danny scowled and took a long inhale from a cigarette, trailing along on the other side of the fence. "I was never much into parties," he deflected, smoke curling through the chain link. "Not really my bag."

Sam's gaze followed the hand holding the cigarette—the one with the crescent scar. She huffed, wrinkling her nose at the smell. "You're smoking again."

"I don't hang out with you anymore, remember?" Danny countered. He crossed his arms.

"Then why are you following me?" She reached the gate, slipping through it. Her heels stuck in the gravel.

Danny followed her as she crouched to unlock her bike. He leaned against the fence and crossed his legs at his ankles. His foot fidgeted nervously, knee bouncing. "I still have that off feeling," he mused aloud. He took another anxious puff, as if to calm his nerves.

Sam paused, key in the lock. She shot him a look over her shoulder. "You dead people have some sort of grim reaper power? What is this? _Final Destination_?" she sniffed.

 _"Think,_ Sam." Danny flicked the butt of his cigarette in irritation. "Who's about to find out something they're not supposed to?"

Realization seared like lightning through her body, stiffening her limbs. Sam gasped. She dove for her phone.


	23. My Personal Possession

.

〰〰〰

 **23**

My Personal Possession

〰〰〰

Two missed calls. One voicemail. Two unread text messages.

The voicemail was from an unknown number. The calls and texts— Tucker.

Tucker, 7:45pm: _Found a DMV employee that used her daughter's birthday for a password. Rookie mistake. The last owner of the car was Jack Fenton. Maybe a relative? Looking into it..._

Tucker, 8:21pm: _Meet me at the archives asap. I found your ghost. I know why there was no information on him. Mikey found it first and put it on hold. It's been sitting in the reserve bin this whole time._

Sam stared down at the texts, then, with trembling fingers, played the voicemail.

9:42 pm: A rustle of paper, the sound of a pen scratching. A deep rumbly voice spoke: _'Hello Ms. Manson, this is Detective Damon Gray of the APPD. I'm calling you regarding information that's come from your tip. We have reason to believe that the owner of the skull you found is linked to a 1962 cold case, which we are now re-opening. Give me a call back so we can arrange a meeting to discuss more. I would like to know how you found that cabin. My direct line is 513-329-4922 extension 34.'_

The world roiled underneath her feet. Her grip tightened around her phone until her hand ached. She looked up and found Danny gazing at her expectantly, expression grave.

He looked unsurprised. And why would he be? He had been leaving behind bread crumbs. It was only a matter of time until someone followed, and like Hansel and Gretel, the trail led them straight into an oven. "Who?" Danny asked.

"Tucker and a police officer. Valerie's dad. Damon Gray." Her voice came out in a breathy wheeze.

Tucker had texted her an hour ago, Gray less than fifteen minutes ago. There might still be time to get to them before the ghosts did.

Danny's eyes widened at the mention of Officer Gray. He pushed off the chain link fence. "You have time to save one. Not both."

Ignoring him, Sam punched in Tucker's number. It rang itself hoarse until the voicemail pick up. She hung up; she dialed again. "I can get to them both," she muttered, more to herself.

Danny shrugged and tailed her as she headed towards her bike. His expression said he didn't believe her, but wasn't willing to argue. "But you'll have to start with one. Who will you save first?"

Tucker didn't pick up. Sam frowned slightly and dialed Officer Gray. More voicemail. Panic started to creep in her chest, making her breath flutter. "Why isn't this _working_?" She resisted the urge to throw her phone in frustration.

"You think ghosts are going to make it easy?"

Sam ignored him and dialed Gray again. It rang endlessly. Again. Nothing. She paced in a tight circle, mind racing, trying to come up with a plan in which there would be a happy ending.

"You have to choose," Danny reminded her. "Time's ticking."

"This isn't fair," Sam said, rounding on him, voice cracking. None of it was fair. _Amanda, Mikey, Ida, Officer Gray, Tucker—_

"Choices are rarely fair," Danny breathed out, smoke spilling from his mouth, vanishing his form from his feet up."They make up for it by being easy."

Sam picked up her bike lock key from where she had dropped it, turning her back on the ghost. "Easy!?" she repeated, voice thick with emotion. Scowling, she knelt down next to her bike and struggled with the lock. "It's a Sophie's choice."

He tilted his head. "The moment you understood your choice, you made it."

He was right, of course. Sam hated that he was right. Hated how Danny discussed imminent death with the same aloofness he discussed the weather. Like it happened so often that it was blasé.

Sam unlocked her bike, climbed atop, and glared at him. "What's _your_ choice, then?"

Danny's bright eyes blinked behind his velvet mask. "My choice?"

"Will you help me save them? Or will you do nothing?" Which was it? The boy that had danced with her in her room or the boy that chased her mother down the stairs? Which was Danny? "This is your chance to show me. To make up for what you did. Are you good or evil?"

He broke into a heartbreakingly sad smile. "C'mon, Boots. Aren't we all a bit of each?"

"This isn't a _joke,_ Danny." She gripped her handlebars resolutely.

Understanding dawned across his features. That grin faltered, grew stale. "You're really going to try and stop a ghost all on your own?"

"I _have_ to."

Sam felt like an exotic specimen, with the way Danny was studying her in that moment. Like he didn't quite know what to make of her. Like he had never met anyone quite like her. His lips parted in awe, hands limp at his sides, staring like she was rare finery. Two milky green cataracts formed a glowing film over his wide eyes. He dropped his cigarette and stomped on it.

"Alright," he decided, "I'll help."

.

.

Sam's side complained as she rode as fast as humanly possible towards the library. Somewhere along the way she kicked her high heels off, opting to go barefoot in order to get a better grip on her pedals.

She held her phone to her ear.

 _This is Tucker! Don't bother leaving a voicemail._

The sky began to drizzle as she skidded into the Amity Park Public Library parking lot. The raindrops stained the pavement black. The windows were dark. Nothing stirred inside. That, coupled with the enormous Greek columns, made the library feel like a mausoleum.

Sam threw her bike onto the ground in a clatter, wrenched her purse off, and ran for the front entrance, bare feet scuffing along the cement steps two at a time.

She tugged at the door. Locked. She let out a frustrated scream and kicked at it, ignoring the ache in her foot. After the third kick proved ineffective, she turned away and peered at the windows for another way inside.

Her pause was long enough to allow thoughts of Officer Gray to surface— No. She couldn't think about him right now. She made her choice. Tucker. Focus on Tucker. From what little she knew of Officer Gray, she thought he would have agreed with her.

Footsteps approached from behind and Danny was suddenly at her side. He had lost the costume. "When you enter you'll be in the ghost realm. We're late. Who knows what's in there by now."

"Your killer?" she asked.

Danny shook his head, once, like, ' _I'm not allowed to say.'_

"Tucker's in there," Sam said. "I have to go in."

"They will try to trick you. Promise you'll listen to me, no matter what you see."

Sam hesitated, throat suddenly very dry. Did she trust him enough to make that promise? After everything that had happened? Her eyes darted towards the door, where Tucker could very well be fighting for his life. She realized it didn't matter. Danny was her best chance at saving Tucker and they had wasted enough time debating. They had to work together. She had to trust him, for Tucker's sake.

"I promise," Sam vowed.

Danny placed his hands on her shoulders. The strong scent of cigarette smoke and cologne washed over her. "Whatever happens…" he trailed off, let go, and stepped directly through the door.

Sam stared.

The lock clicked and the door opened. Quickly, she hurried inside. A small chink of light from outside traveled across her feet, disappearing, as Danny shut the door.

It was nearly pitch black inside the library. Sound was muffled like right after a blanketing of snow, only less peaceful; more dreadful. The floor was freezing against Sam's bare feet. She let out a shaky breath, seeing it condense in front of her face. The library was so dark that Sam could barely make out Danny's outline next to her. From the sides of her vision she could see him faintly, but if Sam stared straight at him the glow went away. She caught a slice of his face. It was blurry, distorted. She held up her hand an inch from her face, finding that it looked the same.

Danny grabbed her outstretched hand and tugged her along. He crept slowly, cautiously. His hand felt more substantial than normal. There was even some semblance of warmth in it.

"Which way?" Danny whispered.

"Basement. Archives. Take a right."

As her eyes adjusted, she could begin to see her surroundings. The library was warped. Objects were the wrong size. Bookshelves towered infinitely upwards, while tables were only as tall as Sam's knees. To her left, a book about the same size as a small car rested against a bookshelf— a blatant sign that she had entered a new plane of reality. Uncanniness spread like ice down Sam's spine.

Something moved up ahead. Sam jumped.

Danny stiffened.

Peeking around his shoulder, she saw… she blinked rapidly.

No. That couldn't be right.

Danny walked towards them, light from the archive's entrance etching his outline in a fiery halo.

 _Has to be a mirror_ , Sam told herself, in order to keep some trace of sanity. But something about his face was off and Sam couldn't pinpoint what.

"Predictable," the reflection said and crossed his arms.

 _Her_ Danny didn't have his arms crossed and he hadn't spoken.

Sam couldn't believe what she was seeing. "Danny?"

"That's not me," he replied.

"You'd think after fifty-two years you'd give up," the doppelgänger tutted. "I have to give you some credit. Although now I know who your new sleuth is." Other-Danny's eyes flicked to hers. Sam felt like he was x-raying her with his gaze.

"What is it talking about?" Sam whispered. "What'd it do with Tucker?"

"Quiet," Danny shushed, grip turning painful. He shifted and pressed his back protectively against her, effectively making himself into a shield.

"I'm curious. What does it feel like to fail over and over?" other-Danny taunted.

Sam shivered. Danny was right. That wasn't him.

"It isn't over yet," the real Danny countered. _"Move."_

At the order, green rings crackled from Danny's lips through the air, washing over his doppelgänger, who obeyed and took a step to the side, like he was about to let them walk right past. Then his frame jerked and a pained expression fought across his features. "You— You think that'll work on _me?"_ he spat. His eyes flared crimson.

"I had hoped," Danny joked wryly. He gave Sam's hand a brief squeeze and was gone.

Sam remained rooted to the spot. Green lightning whirred around her in circles. A thunderous booming noise ripped through the library, echoing infinitely— a repetitive _bzzzaaaaaap_ of discharging electricity. At the sound she ducked instinctively and covered her head with her arms as bits of exploded book rained down. Her heart galloped in her throat, each beat pleading with her brain to ba-dum _leave,_ bad-dum _run now and_ bad-dum _never come back. Forget about Tucker, save yourself. No human could fight this; it's as hopeless as trying to fight a tornado with a gun..._

Wind buffeted her from every direction and screamed in her ear. Something toppled the bookshelf behind her in a loud commotion. She caught a glimpse of Danny sprawled on the floor amidst a pile of giant books, lightning sparking in his eyes, another Danny stalking towards him. She couldn't tell which was which.

Sam pried her legs from up off the floor and ran for the unguarded archive entrance. The warm light called to her. She had to find Tucker and get him out of here. Nothing else mattered. Not even the fact that she was jumping over a pencil the size of a small log.

She took the stairs three at a time. As she barreled down, the stairway shrank until she was wiggling her way towards a small prick of white light. She used the heels of her hands to propel her way forward, pushing aside her claustrophobia, until she was crawling on her belly through a tiny opening into the archives. She toppled onto a hard white marble floor. Lights shook above her head. She could hear the faint sound of Danny and other-Danny battling on the floor above.

Sam blinked rapidly and got to her feet. She knew that she was standing in the archives, but it looked nothing like the last time she'd been here. The room was overly bright compared to the upstairs. Everything was white. Even the spines of the books were white, titles erased. But, most notably, the aisles stretched outwards infinitely. It felt stepping between two facing mirrors, seeing yourself repeated, forever, until dissolving into a white oblivion.

Sam stopped trying to rationalize what she was seeing. She was convinced that at any moment she'd wake in her bed.

Raising her hand to her eyes to try and shield them from the bright white, Sam picked an aisle, and started to run down it. Loose papers fluttered in her wake.

"Tucker?" she called, starting soft. _"Tucker?"_

She ran down a few more hallways. Pretty soon she was lost. Everything blurred into a field of white nothingness. "TUCKER?!" she whisper-screamed. A whine of panic tore through her composure. She yanked some books and boxes off the shelves, dumping them onto the floor, in order to mark aisles she had already searched.

"TUCKER?" she full on screamed.

The noise of ripping paper drew her attention. She raced towards it and rounded the corner of a bookshelf.

Tucker sat on the floor amongst a pile of newspapers. His face was deathly pale. Black stained his lips and drew smeared ink lines down his cheeks and neck. His glasses were cracked and crooked upon his nose. With a chill, Sam noticed he had two pupils in each eye. Staring blankly at nothing, his hands ripped a chunk of paper off the stack before him, crumpled it, and shoved it in his mouth. He chewed methodically, swallowed, ripped a new piece. The papers around him formed the angular shape of a coffin.

Her mouth went dry. "Stop!" She lurched forward and yanked the wadded paper out of Tucker's hands. She wondered how much he had already ingested, then wondered if you could die from eating paper or poison yourself from ink.

Tucker ripped another piece of paper.

She grabbed it before it could get near his mouth. A headline caught her eye and she looked down at the newspaper in her hands, uncrumpling it. In bold, large type it read: WHERE IS HE? Underneath was a black and white photo of Danny, donning a sweater vest with a white collared shirt. His face was soft, lip quirked in the hint of a smile, like he was party to some joke they were all missing.

Her eyes tore around the floor. There were more headlines, scattered.

STILL MISSING. BRING HIM HOME. AMITY SEARCH CALLED OFF.

Tucker's hands crumpled another piece of newspaper in Sam's negligence. Sam saw the title briefly, before it was shoved in his mouth.

NATIONWIDE SEARCH FOR DANIEL FENTON CONTINUES.

Daniel Fenton. A name. Her brain jolted, supplying: Jack Fenton, Madeline Fenton. Two names she had seen before, numerous times. A vision assaulted her— her tree, with two tombstones beside it and Danny always sitting pointedly atop one of them. Sam glanced at Tucker. This didn't feel like a victory.

"Tucker? We need to go. Get up," Sam pleaded. She went to grab his arm.

Someone snatched her from around the waist and flung her back. Breath got knocked from her stomach. She tumbled, twisting around to find Danny—or was it other-Danny?

"You can't touch him. Or you could get possessed too," he explained breathlessly.

"Who's possessing—? Wait Tucker's _possessed?_ " Sam struggled at the idea. "Then _you_ do something!" She gestured at Tucker who was steadily eating his way through evidence.

Danny's eyes were wide. "Yeah I would but you know it's not that easy to force out a possession. It's a slow, delicate process," he tittered, "Things could go wrong. I can't just…" he broke off helplessly.

Sam caught the waver of fear in his voice. She had never seen him scared before. Even in the woods he had kept his cool. Goosebumps broke out across her arms and legs.

Danny paced back and forth. His hands ran through his hair, lacing behind the back of his neck. "Ok, ok," he muttered to himself darkly, eyes darting back and forth across the floor, like he was pumping himself up for something.

 _"Danny,"_ Sam yelled. "We're running out of time." She didn't know how she knew that, but a primal part of her knew the longer they stayed in the library the lower their chances of getting out.

"Time!" Danny laughed, like she had told the punchline to some giant cosmic joke. He caught her eye, face growing serious and resolute, then dug in his heels and bolted straight at Tucker.

Sam only had a split second to be concerned before Danny flew _into_ Tucker and Tucker's face contorted. His body began to shake and his head tossed from side to side. Each time an after image of two other bodies lingered, like two other people were inside Tucker and Tucker was trying to shake them out.

Sam shivered, stumbling back.

 _"No!"_ Tucker screamed, voice shrill. He coughed and hunched over, back spasming painfully as he retched. Slimy wads of blue and black newspaper splattered around his hands. He choked. He retched again.

It physically hurt to stand there and not comfort Tucker in some way. A whine fought behind her taut lips. She got onto her hands and knees and crawled towards him, keeping a safe distance.

"It's quiet where we're from. Full of fishes…" he cried. His eyes blew wide, bugged— three pupils swimming in them now. One red, one brown, one blue. "They're always hungry. Sometimes the ground falls out. Stop. _Struggling._ "

"What?" Sam breathed. Tucker was clearly out of his mind. Was this even Tucker speaking?

"It's your responsibility to _do_ something about it! _Tell_ them. _Tell them who did it. TELL THEM,"_ Tucker bellowed. He dissolved into mutterings and sickly groans, calming somewhat. Besides Tucker's heavy breathing everything turned eerily silent.

Sam sat back on her haunches, eyes darting from one aisle to the next. It felt too still, too peaceful, compared to everything that has just happened. Her hair stood up along her arms and legs. It felt like they were being watched. _We are not alone._

No sooner than she thought that then two blurs burst from Tucker and chaos returned. The lights above exploded, glass raining into her hair and down her neck. Sam winced as glass filleted tiny cuts down her back.

Green lightning bounced around, pinging off bookshelves and metal filing cabinets, leaving behind charred bits of paper. The deafening hum of it vibrated the floor. Sam ducked as it arced. She could feel the heat of it as it narrowly past her.

Danny manifested three yards to her left in a whirl of smoke, hand raised in the air, condensing the unruly lightening into a ball, before flinging it at a shadow near the back of the archive. It collided with a clap of thunder that shook the remaining lights.

A figure stumbled into existence. An enormous man, dressed in a heavy long coat, jeans, and thick hiking boots. Along his waist hung a shotgun and an array of hunting knives. Most notably, he had no head. The headless man grabbed his gun and aimed it at Danny, cocking the trigger with a cruel _snap_.

Danny stumbled a step back, alarmed.

Sam was frozen in shock.

"Get Tucker and _run,"_ Danny yelled. It didn't have the leadened weight of one of his orders, but it launched Sam into action anyway.

She suppressed her terror, got her feet underneath her, and made for Tucker. Glass gnawed into the soles of her bare feet, burrowing deep into her skin. Pain lanced up her legs. Behind her, a shot rang out, incredibly loud. The echo of it rattled the entire room, making her stumble and nearly slip in her own blood. Sam didn't look back, didn't stop. Danny was already dead. It wasn't like a gunshot to the face was going to do much.

On the other hand, Tucker was still very much alive and Sam wanted to keep it that way. He was in a heap on the ground, clutching his stomach. His face contorted in agony. Sam hooked her arms and tried to hoist him up by the armpits but it was impossible with how much his limbs were shaking.

"Sam," Tucker gasped, more lucid. "They asked me if I'd let them in. I didn't mean to— didn't know. Dying... Gotta be... _Hurts."_

He gagged and doubled over, ripping out of Sam's grasp. His stomach spasmed and he threw up another batch of pulp. In between heaves a scream tore from his white lips.

Sam felt another flash of heat bolt past her face as Danny continued to hold off the headless man. Paper whirled through the air like frenzied ash. The last remaining lights blew out and Sam was blind except for the flashes of green lightning that intermittently lit the hallways.

"No one's going to die," Sam declared, although she wasn't so sure anymore. No. Focus on the here and now. One thing at a time: Get Tucker out.

She roped her arms back underneath Tucker's armpits, yanked him upright again. This time they got their balance. Adrenaline lent her the extra strength needed to drag Tucker back the way she came. Quickly, she realized they were lost. The aisles all looked the same and wound haphazardly like a maze. Sam was half convinced they had moved.

"...Saw an office with a trick doorway…" Tucker muttered deliriously. "...found a basement full of dead people…"

Sam blinked as her eyes adjusted to the absence of light. She hooked a right on a whim and stumbled upon a small study space that had two wooden chairs facing one another. Like spokes on a wheel, over ten hallways branched off away from the clearing. Her eyes darted down each.

There! A small black hole at the end of a hallway. The exit! It wasn't that far away! She ran three steps towards it before noticing something off.

Peeking out from all the ends of the aisles were those kids. They ducked their mutilated faces as soon as they noticed Sam looking, but Sam could hear the noise of scuffling feet and giggling. She could hear their whisperings.

 _"...Don't look at us…"_

 _"...We're hideous…"_

A soft whining noise filled the air and pairs of animalistic eyes glowed, catching and reflecting the green light. Hounds. Like the one Amanda Scully had seen.

Sam ignored them, pressing forward. All that mattered was that exit.

Suddenly, Mikey Voss appeared, blocking the path.

Sam's grip tightened around Tucker in surprise.

Mikey looked just like he had while alive. Same gelled red hair, mousy posture, gangly frame, and thick glasses. He noticed her attention and sent her a vivid glare. There was accusation in it. Like _'you did this to me'._ One hand moved slowly up to his face, cupping his lips, as he mouthed a sarcastic _'Good luck.'_

Light raced away and Sam was blind again.

Confusion.

A thud resounded behind her, followed by a distinct choking sound.

Oh wait. No— was that Tucker?

Which way was the exit? She was spun around.

She knew she couldn't just stand still in the middle of the aisle like bait— she had to _move—_ but her knees were wobbly and threatening to give out under Tucker's weight. His head lolled on her shoulder as he groaned sickly.

Another green flash. Sam could see.

Mikey held a silver object aloft. Sam recognized it as a lighter and her heart stopped. "Danny," she rasped, then screamed, " _Danny_!" But Danny was gone, probably still battling the hunter.

Mikey flicked it open, gaze flitting from flame, to Sam, to flame, which grew enormous in size. It lapped the air like a rabid animal; shadowed claws tore up the walls behind him. The light reflected a mad glint in his glasses. Every inch of the archive glowed red.

Hounds yipped. Children's faces peeked out of the aisleways with cattish curiosity, their eyes hovering, glowing, silent, like they were all holding a collective breath.

Then, in one sinuous motion, Mikey flung the lighter and the archive exploded in flame.


	24. So, Bye Bye Love

.

〰〰〰

 **24**

So, Bye Bye Love

〰〰〰

With a loud _whoosh_ the flame became an inferno. It moved quicker than regular fire, engulfing the outermost reaches of the archive first. Then, it slithered down the aisleways, gobbling up fuel as it crept.

" _No!"_ Sam yelled. Her fear dissolved into outrage. She shook her head, hair sticking to her sweat. _No._ This was not how this was going to end. This was not how she died. They hadn't come this far just to… to _lose._

The ghosts lurked like shadows behind storage bins and bookcases. They cowered, yet watched with morbid curiosity, as a wave of heat bore down on Sam and Tucker.

Tucker's body shook violently until Sam could barely hold them both upright.

"Go without me," Tucker wheezed. "Tell everyone what happened."

"I'm not leaving you so shut up _,"_ Sam hissed. Something whipped past her and Tucker stiffened in her grasp. Abruptly, he straightened and quieted. His limbs stopped shaking, eyes glazed, mouth slack.

Sam blinked. "...Tucker?"

A pair of hands gripped her tightly, yanking her away from him. They phased her into the next aisle. She tumbled behind a filing cabinet.

Danny peered down at her. Despite the growing heat of the fire, his body was cool.

" _Tucker—"_ Sam garbled.

"Skulker has him again," Danny gusted, huddling close. He crooked his head to listen as they hid behind the cabinet. His visage was flickering. Face taut and pale, hair unkempt, eyes dimmed. He looked… defeated. Resigned. Like this had happened before— many times.

Like he was giving up.

"Don't give me that look," Sam choked. Soot flooded her mouth, hot, burning. Smoke darkened the room. Coughing, she attempted to cover her mouth with her arm, trying to keep out the worst of the ash.

Light from the fire danced across Danny's face. "We're too late."

"Don't. You're not allowed to say that." She twisted in his grasp— yet he didn't let her go. "It isn't over yet, remember? _You_ said that. You haven't given up for over fifty years—" A sob wrestled it's way out of her throat. "You can't give up now!"

Sweat trickled down her neck. It was _stifling_. Sam could barely breathe. Waves of intense heat battered into her, making the air feel as thick as water. Sam peered beyond Danny's shoulder and saw an enormous wall of fire blocking the way out.

"There's too many of them," Danny wrenched.

"You said you'd help!" Sam screamed, her voice raw and breaking. Her fingernails dug desperately into his sweater, tearing it. With a start, Sam discovered that Danny's entire chest was littered with scars.

" _Listen,"_ Danny ordered.

Sam snapped to attention.

His blue eyes were enormous; so bright they appeared to float without his body. They were filled with tears.

The flames crackled closer with a deafening roar. Danny leaned in, wrapping his cold arms around her like he was trying to protect her from the heat. His mouth was right near her ear, his cool cheek pressed against hers. "I'm not giving up, Sam. I'm giving in, for now. I know when something's over. When it's inescapable," he murmured, "Believe me, Sam. I know better than anyone when I've lost."

"Don't." Her head spun as she gasped for air. "Try again."

"Boots," Danny said, and it sounded like an apology.

" _Don't."_ She didn't need ghost powers for her voice carrying the same weight as one of his orders. She pushed at Danny's chest and pointed towards where she had last seen Tucker. " _Try again."_

Danny's grip around her loosened. "Okay," he said and was gone in a blur of movement.

He never made it to Tucker. Another ghost intercepted him mid-air and they tumbled into the bookshelves. The shelves fell, exploding in a shower of embers and debris.

Sam shielded her face and pressed her back up against the filing cabinet. The metal seared through her jacket. All the taffeta in her mother's pink dress crinkled under the heat. Pain brought things back to brittle clarity. She chanced taking her hand away from her eyes to try and peer out through the thick haze of ash.

Find Tucker. She had to find Tucker.

Bunching up the dress as best she could, Sam crawled on her hands and knees. She inched towards the direction she saw Tucker last, until she found a spot where the bookshelves had collapsed and, through the smoke, she saw him. He was standing right where she had left him. Her limbs nearly went out in relief— until she noticed the flames licking up Tucker's pants, engulfing his arms and torso. He never moved or shrieked. Just stood there and allowed the fire to eat him.

The world might as well have stopped turning.

Sam's brain went silent. Her vision tunneled. Sound was irrelevant. She was only distantly aware that she was screaming incoherently. She found her feet and wrenched herself up. Heat tripled in intensity the higher she stood. She got a lungful of carbon monoxide. Vertigo slammed into her. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't see. Couldn't speak. Falling. Backwards. Down a dark hole, wind whistling past her ears.

She hit the floor, hard, sputtering, tears streaming down her face. All she could think was: Tucker's dead Tucker's dead Tucker'sdead _Tucker'sdead..._

"Wake up," she rasped. This couldn't be real. "Wake up."

Ash and charred paper got stuck between her fingers as she clawed at the ground. Fire jumped in her periphery. Only a few minutes left before it devoured her too.

A pair of nice shoes entered her blurry vision. Her tear-filled eyes shot up.

Danny crouched low, brows knitted in concern. He held out his hand. "I've got you, Sam. Let's go," he yelled over the din of the fire.

Sam grappled for him like an infant. At least Danny would be here while she died. That would be a small comfort. As she outstretched her arms for him to pick her up, facts began to trickle through the neurons in her shock-rattled brain.

Danny's sweater was no longer ripped. His right hand didn't have a crescent scar.

A trick. This was a trick.

"No," Sam breathed. A stone sank in her stomach. What happened to the real Danny?

The doppelgänger dropped the hand. His face flicked from comforting to murderous, before he lunged, fingers wrapping around her throat.

Sam's eyes widened. His cold hands pressed near her collarbone, near where the car accident had snapped it, and she felt bugs crawl underneath her skin. She scrapped, clawing at his face, kicking, bucking, but nothing slowed him down. He shoved her back against the cabinet with enough force that her head clanged off the metal. Ice-fire spread down her back. Sam tried to scream, but her mouth gaped wordlessly.

Other-Danny's face hovered inches away. Blue eyes narrowed into thin slivers of ice.

Then, his face melted clean off as he took a bolt of green electricity directly to the temple and Sam was free.

She flopped on the ground, gasping for breath, grinding her face into the miserably hot marble floor. Distantly, she felt her cheek alight with pain. An intense smell assaulted her: burned hair, burned skin. Her hands fluttered to her throat. _Can't breathe— Can't—_ Suffocation had her crawling blindly, trying to get away from everything all at once. Darkness stole her vision away.

.

.

When she came to, rain pelted her face and she was outside. Her eyesight was a fuzzy mirage. She could barely make out a ball of light that she could only assume was the library aflame.

Sam knew that if she had to look at a visual representation of her life, this was it: a bright red smear and a long black empty parking lot in a town where no one knew her and she didn't know them.

Her head lying against someone. She could feel his voice rumble around in his chest as he spoke, "Easy, Sam. Breathe. You have to keep breathing."

Hands shook her tenderly back and forth. They pawed rain and soot from her face and brushed her wet bangs out of her eyes. Sam didn't flinch when her melted hair stuck to the side of her face.

"It isn't over yet, remember? Don't do it. Don't you _dare..._ "

Fire tore into her throat. Her lungs were bellows and each breath only stoked pain. Pain everywhere. Sam had no idea where it was all coming from. Her vision slowly darkened again.

"...I'm sorry," the voice continued, brokenly, "I wish you never moved here. I wish this never happened to you. I wish _I'd_ never happened to you..."

.

.

Sam woke laying on her stomach, bandaged and attached to machines. She jolted in terror and immediately looked for Tucker.

To her left, a door. To her right, a window and an unfamiliar cityscape. A multitude of buildings twinkled in the late-afternoon sun. She was on maybe the fortieth floor in a very tall hospital. This wasn't Amity Park.

The stillness in the room was horrible.

Sam breathed shallowly and pressed her cheek into the pillow, realizing a little late that half of her face was bandaged and completely numb. Where was Tucker? Surely he wasn't really dead? Right? _Right...?_ It had all been dream. _Right?!_ Panic welled. Her body shook. She tried to push herself upright, but got tangled in wires and tubes, which only made her mounting anxiety worse.

Reality clapped her across the head. Grisly images flashed, and she remembered. Tucker was gone. Dead. Her fault. _Entirely_ her fault.

Guilt crushed her into a feeble ball. Every organ in her body suddenly wanted to escape. She clutched her bandaged throat, whimpering. It felt like someone was stabbing a knife repeatedly into her back. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched, being chased, even in this empty hospital room.

'Relax,' she rasped, trying to will her hands to stop trembling. All that came out of her mouth was a mouse-like squeak. 'Relax— I can't— _I can't—_ '

The door cracked open. Her father took up the chair next to her while her mother ran her fingers through what was left of her hair, over and over.

.

.

Sam was ripped from her fitful sleep hours later, when nurses woke her to change her bandages. As they peeled them away, Sam's back spasmed. She tried to yelp, but nothing came out. She wondered if she would ever speak again.

"I know. I know it hurts. Almost done, sweetie," a nurse murmured soothingly while she scraped off Sam's skin.

Sam thrashed. Her vision blackened and she _was_ pain. She had to be, because no matter where she squirmed she couldn't get away from it. Through it all one thought broke through— the giddy, hilarious thought that she finally understood what Danny had meant by inescapable; what he felt when he had given up. She felt it now, too.

Fresh bandages.

Morphine.

This time, Sam dove into that pitch black rabbithole.

 _._

 _._

On the third day, the police came to question her.

Why had she been in the archives after the library was closed? How did she and Tucker break in? Did she know the entire library burned to the ground along with everything it contained? Did she care? The matter of her escape is highly suspect. How had she done it in the condition she was in? How come she hadn't called 911? The lighter— the incendiary device— was it hers?

Sam still had no voice. Though, she wouldn't have answered their questions anyway. It's not like they'd believe her.

In the end, her father interrupted, demanding her lawyer be present. The officers left, but not without the threat that they'd be back. And Sam couldn't help but notice Officer Gray was never amongst them.

.

.

When she woke again it was light outside and her room was empty. Unusual. Her parents were always around.

Her eyes trailed over the table and visitor chair next to her bed. Several bouquets of flowers sat on the table near her head. Sunflowers, roses, and white lilies. Her father's coat was hanging off the back of the adjacent chair. On the seat was the pink bag Sam had stuffed the relics in. Sam blinked, dumbfounded, that she still had it after all that had happened.

With a grimace, Sam leaned over, carefully pulled the bag onto her bed and, minding the IV, she took a look inside. All the relics were still there. Also, the invite to Paulina's party, her phone, her wallet, a compact mirror...

Sam opened the mirror with a soft _pop_ and got her first look at herself since the fire.

The entire left side of her face was swathed in gauze. Propping herself up on her elbows, she used her free hand to peel away the bandages. Her face throbbed, but Sam knew the cocktail she was hooked up to dulled the brunt of the pain. It also had the added effect of making her dreamy and weird, which was why, when she found shiny skin and a distorted, swollen, eyelid underneath her gauze, her only reaction was to poke at it in disbelief. Her left ear was gone completely, along with half of her hair. A veiny choleric burn puckered along the side of her head, across her cheek, and down the side of her neck, continuing until it disappeared underneath the neckline of her thin hospital gown. She knew it traveled down her back. There were stitches around her eye like doctors had already tried, and failed, to piece her back together. Surely this wasn't _her_. No. This Frankenstein woman was someone else. A complete stranger.

The woman in the mirror quivered. Feeling far away from her own body, Sam was slow to realize her hand was shaking. She slammed her eyes shut and dropped the mirror onto her bed. After a few deep breathes, she regained her composure, then glared accusingly at that awful pink bag. A tube of lipstick peeked out. Her throat constricted. She couldn't swallow.

With trembling fingers, she pulled Tucker's invention out. She memorized the feel of it with her fingertips and pressed it to her lips. This was the last piece of Tucker that she had left. The rest of him…

Sam forced the images away. She wrestled and chained them someplace deep inside where she kept dark, miserable, dangerous creatures. The colors in her head reddened at the fringes. She opened the ghost detector. The lights remained off. Sam no longer felt relief, only numb indifference.

"Sammy? You up?" Her mother shouldered her way through the door, grinning. She held aloft two pieces of fruit. "Apple, or peach?" she asked cheerily.

The detector lit green centimeters from Sam's face. Sam stared at it.

"Fine. I'll take the peach, you take the apple." Pamela glided to the chair and plopped down into it. Juice dribbled down her chin. She noticed Sam staring and raised an eyebrow. "What did you do with your bandages?"

Sam tucked the detector underneath her sheets, pressing it close against her thigh so the green light didn't make the sheets glow. Her lungs squeezed. Each loss was getting less and less surprising. 'I love you,' she mouthed to her mother. She should have said so sooner.

"Oh honey, I love you too," the ghost sighed.

.

.

Sam waited until visiting hours ended. Once her parents had left for the night, she fished her phone from it's charger and her wallet from the pink bag. She pulled out that psychiatrist's crumpled business card, dialing.

It rang four times, then picked up.

"Dr. Jasmine Matthews," greeted a tired-calm voice.

That voice was a mouthful of warm honey. It slid down Sam's throat and soothed deep inside her. But instead of calming, her stomach upturned. Her phone rattled against her unburned ear. When she tried to speak, to explain, she choked. How could she even begin to explain what had happened?

"Hello?... Who is this?"

A tear meandered down her cheek. She tried to speak again and this time something came out, a tiny frail whisper, "Someone who needs your help."

* * *

—Diary Entry, VIII—

Wednesday February 5th, 1970

Dear Danny,

Happy 23rd birthday. Are you out there, somewhere, alive? Are you eating birthday cake right now? Do you think of me sometimes? Where did you go? How come you never came back?

You've missed a lot. An astronaut walked on the moon last year. I bet you'd be both angry and excited to find out. You always said you'd be the first.

I took your advice and went to college. You were right about a lot of things. I was never a great listener, but I'm getting better.

Johnny dumped me after you left. I found out he had been cheating with a girl named Kitty. At first I was angry, but now I think it was for the best. That boy was empty.

The missing little brother thing kind of put a damper on my dating life (thanks for that), but I found somebody else and, unlike Johnny, I think you'd like him. His name is Evan Matthews. His cousin was one of the other kids that went missing. He's one of the few people that can empathize with what happened to my family, because it happened to his too.

Mom is okay. She's started inventing again. She still flinches whenever someone mentions you, but I think she wants to move on.

Dad is still struggling. I got a call from Detective Gray last week that Dad's looking for you in Amity again. Banging on people's doors. Bothering everyone, claiming he found a new piece of evidence. He won't let anyone forget and he won't give up. His search has taken over every aspect of his life. The investigation stole something from him. All the horrible things people said about Dad... The police insinuating he had something to do with your disappearance... Even though everyone knows it's not true, it hurt him and our family in a way that can't be undone.

You're still technically alive. No funeral. No grave. No body to fill it. There's this enormous wound that will never heal, and the not knowing of where you went just makes it fester and sour. Mom and Dad barely talk anymore and I don't know how to fix it. It's why I've enrolled in psychology, to understand grief and loss. Maybe I can try and help other people that have been through the same thing.

This letter is my goodbye. I can't keep lingering on you. It isn't healthy. I've accepted that I may never know what really happened on August 12, 1962. Maybe that seems like defeat, but, knowing you, I suspect you wouldn't want me moping about on your behalf.

So goodbye, Danny. Until we meet again. Whenever that is, wherever that is. I'm sorry we failed you. I'm sorry we couldn't find you.

I will love you always,

Jazz

* * *

 _fin Part II: Murphy's Law_

* * *

 **a/n:** Congrats to the anon that reviewed on chapter 10 and coorocrow10120 who reviewed on chapter 15. You both predicted that Dr. Matthews is Jazz and you were both right! Ok. _Now_ I'll say my 'sorry's.' Sorry because Tucker. And sorry because, with the conclusion of Part II, _A Snapping Sound_ enters a long hiatus. This chunk was so much fun to write, but I'm going to need a glass of wine at least a month-long break before I begin writing the next chunk. It won't be for many months until I start posting again. Thank you so much to everyone that followed this part and reviewed! :) In the meantime, you can go on tumblr to get updates on my progress, see artwork... and who knows, I might even do a drabble giveaway to get me pumped to start Part III. Follow _snappingsound_.


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